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MAY ISABEL FISK 



THE ETERNAL 
FEMININE 

MONOLOGUES 

BY 

MAY ISABEL FISK 

AUTHOR OF 

"THE TALKING WOMAN" 

AND OTHER MONOLOGUES 




HARPER &- BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

M C MX I 



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Books by 



MAY ISABEL FISK 

Monologues. Post 8vo $1.25 

The Talking Woman. Monologues. Ill'd. 

Post 8vo 1.25 

The Eternal Fe.minine. Monologues. Ill'd. 

Post 8vo net i.oo 

HARPER & BROTHERS. NEW YORK 



19-..-^ 



COPYRIGHT. 1911. 
COPYRIGHT, 1910. BY ESS ESS PUBLISH 



3Y HARPER & BROTHERS 

ING COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT. 1908. BY THE CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
PUBLISHED OCTOBER. 1911 



CI.A21)7711 



Content0 



PAGE 



At the Beauty Parlors 3 

Overheard at the Academy 27 

Photographing the Baby ...*... 41 

The Lady Help ......... 65 

The Country Post-Office 85 

At the Hair-dresser's 109 

On a "Seeing London" Motor .... 123 

The Consoler 141 

Almost a Tragedy . . 165 

The Way of the World 189 

The London Char-Lady . . . . . . 219 



1inu0tration0 



MAY ISABEL FISK Frontispiece 

"you wouldn't think not a bit of 
that head was her own, would 

YOU?" Facing p. lO 

"no, mustn't do that WITH FATHER'S 

watch" " 58 

THE POSTMISTRESS STEPS FORWARD TO 
the goods COUNTER TO GREET 

A CUSTOMER " d,2> 

"that BEAST OF A CABBY RAN UP THE 
STEPS AFTER US AND MADE SUCH 
A FUSS WE HAD TO GIVE HIM AN 
EXTRA sixpence" ** I26 

"one of the mummies looked exact- 
ly like a man I met on the ship" ** 136 



^^ ^^ ^^ 

Ht tbe Beaut? iparlore 

9^^ <^^ ^^^ 



at tbe Beauti2 parlore 

Scene: The ''beauty parlors'^ of a large 
department store. There are a mimber 
of booths divided off by wooden parti- 
tions, whence emanate swashing and 
gurgling sounds — indicating the prog- 
ress of the shampoo — the whir of the 
electric hair-dryer, the metallic click of 
curling-irons, and the delicate spat-spat 
of massage. Young women with volu- 
minious coiffures and bared arms and 
wearing small aprons, dart in and out 
of these booths, much perturbed, shrilly 
demanding towels, hunting for brushes 
and combs, etc. It woidd seem that 
most of the articles desired have been 
3 



^be lEternal jfeminlne 

mislaid or appropriated by other than 
their rightful possessors, for various com- 
ment and much loud protest concerning 
the matter are forthcoming. 
It is an exceedingly busy hour. The 
''parlors'' are situated in close proximity 
to the restaurant, and mingled with 
''One chicken salad,'' "Two ham sand- 
wiches, thin," is, "Three shell hair-pins, 
short and thick." The rattle of the 
dishes adds materially to the general 
confusion, but is almost dominated by 
the shriek of a phonograph in the ad- 
joining musical-instrument department. 
At one of the manicure tables, near the 
desk of the young woman who keeps a 
supervising eye on all, is the nail 
operator about to commence ministra- 
tions on a newly arrived customer. 




Ill right, madam, you don't 

have to tell me you're in 
a hurry — they all do. . . . 
Oh, I don't mean but what 
you're not, but they all 
say the same thing — have to catch a 
train, or meet their husbands, or got an 
engagement at the dressmaker's, or see 
a lady at lunch — 

... Of course I believe you. I'm just 
telling you what they all say. It don't 
make no difference to us girls — we have 
to do our work just the same. — Round 
or pointed, long or short? ... I always 
ask so there won't be no trouble, later. 
Some customers get so mad if they ain't 
5 



^be Eternal jfeminine 

to suit 'em, and after they're off you 
can't put 'em on again. ... All right. I 
have a cousin who's like that, too. She 
hates them long. She's all for the social 
whirl, as they say. She says they catch 
in the fringe on her table-cloths when she's 
washing 'em. 

. . . That's Caruso singing now. I have 
a friend and she's just crazy about him. 
She waits at the stage door to see him 
come out, and once she saw him driving 
in the Park. . . . No, he was driving — she 
was on a bench. She gets all her friends 
to cut the pieces out of the papers about 
him, and she puts them on the wall. She 
went to the matinee last Sat 'day — she 
got a grand seat up in the top gallery 
and only paid a dollar for it. She 
thinks he noticed her, for when he put 
his hand on his heart — to sing, you 
6 



Z\)c leternal jfemlnine 

know — and looked up he had such a 
queer look. Oh, she's just crazy about 
him. 

When she was telling us about it last 
Sunday afternoon, my little sister said 
most likely he had a pain! She's a 
caution, that kid. 

Oh, she's terrible — she teases me ter- 
rible, too. Whenever one of my gentle- 
men friends is calling on me she acts 
awful — runs right in and makes faces 
and carries on something fierce. My 
mother can't do nothing with her, and 
my father's so foolish about her he lets 
her go on just the way she wants. 

... Is that too short? Just say the 
word. The Western gentlemen are all 
for long nails — just as long as you can 
get *em. There was one in here the 
other day while his wife was down in the 
7 



Z\)c leternal jfeminine 

umbrellas. He was a lovely gentleman, 
too. You ought to have seen his dia- 
monds — a great big one on each pinky, 
and a great big one in his collar-button — 

. . . What? Oh yes, he had it so it 
showed lovely, and the handsomest scarf- 
pin you ever saw — a galloping horse with 
a ruby tail and standing on a whip — all 
of diamonds. He said it cost five hun- 
dred dollars — but that wasn't nothing to 
him. He must have had all kinds. He 
said I ought to go out to Denver — that's 
where he's from. He said he would in- 
troduce me to some of the swellest young 
gentlemen there. He says that money 
is the only thing that counts out his way, 
and the girl who can pick up a rich hus- 
band — and there are plenty of 'em — is 
just as good as the next one. 

Not but what I think I'm just as good 
3 



Z\)c leternal 3feminlne 

as anybody going, now. I'd like to have 
some one tell me I wasn't. ' 

. . . But I do get sick and tired of this 
slaving once in a while, and when you've 
got ambitions and want to get ahead, all 
you can do is to — Just put them in the 
bowl and let them soak — and leave them 
dry up! And when you want a little 
society life it's an everlasting scrimp for 
clothes. 

. . . No, I can't. . . . Well, I'm busy, too. 
Can't you wait on her. Miss Finnegan? 
I've just started to soak this lady, and 
she's going to be waved and steamed 
after. I was late to lunch yesterday, and 
I'm not going to be late again to-day — 
it's awful the way us girls is overworked! 

. . . See that big blond lady just come 
in ? She's the leading lady in the chorus 
of a big burlesque company. She gets 
9 



^be Eternal jfeminine 

an awful big salary — she told me so her- 
self. You wouldn't think not a bit of 
that head was her own, would you? I 
made her a lovely rat to order — big in 
the middle and just tapering at each end 
— it was my own idea. She was sick and 
tired of ordinary rats — and she'd had 
all kinds. She said this one didn't seem 
to scratch nor tickle a bit — you see, not 
having much hair, her skin feels as 
though it was right on top of her head. 
She always goes in an automobile — prob- 
ably there's one waiting for her down- 
stairs now. She's awful good to her 
mother, too. Half the lies they tell 
about her ain't so. And she's so refined. 
She has champagne for lunch every day. 
My married sister knows a lady who 
knows a lady who used to wash her win- 
dows, and she told her. 

lO 




"Nlfefc 



YOU wouldn't think not a bit op that head was hee own, 

WOULD YOU?" 



ZCbe jetcrnal jfeminine 

She goes out to supper after the show 
every night to the very swellest places — 
and she never eats nothing commoner 
than lobster or terrapin — I heard that, 
too, for a fact. She's one of my regular 
customers. She'll feel terrible if I can't 
wait on her this morning. She gave 
me a pass for the theater ^one night, 
and I w^ent with one of my gentlemen 
friends. 

We went behind the stage afterward. 
It was aw^ul exciting, but I was terrible 
disappointed, too. The back of the 
scenery doesn't look like the front at all 
— you haven't any idea. You see, there 
was a garden scene in the — other hand, 
please — last act, and you would think 
when the villain comes in from throwing 
the hero off the cliff and murdering the 
child, and has come back to say farewell 
II 



ttbe jeternal 3feminine 

to his aged mother, well, you'd think 
when he goes through the door in the 
cottage he was walking right into the 
room. But it ain't that way at all — 
nothing but ropes and canvas and men 
standing around in their shirt-sleeves. 

And I wish you could have seen what 
was that awful thunderstorm in the 
second act — I never was so disappointed. 
Nothing but a sheet of iron hung up in 
the middle with handles at the bottom 
to shake at both sides! 

And where the comedian falls down- 
stairs and you nearly die laughing and 
think all his bones is broke; well, it's 
nothing but a big box of broken glass 
shook around! ... I was saying to my 
friend how bad all the things looked 
near to, and there he was staring at those 
brazen huzzies in short clothes, and he 

12 



Z\)c JEternal jfeminine 

said he thought some of the things looked 
pretty good to him near to ! 

You can imagine how mad I was — I 
just hustled him right out, and we never 
waited to see her. We made her Rve 
switches, too. 

. . . Say, Ella — come here a minute — 
that's a good girl. Say, listen here. If 
any one calls me on the 'phone — you 
know who I mean — tell him I'll be at the 
drug -store on the comer at half past 
seven sharp, will you? I'll do as much 
for you some day. I was going to ask 
Maggie, but she's so dumb she never 
knows nothing. . . . All right. Tell him 
I'll be there on time if I have to chuck 
up my job. 

— Other hand, please. . . . Oh, just 
some kind of a sociable. The minister 
is going to give an address. It does 
13 



Zhc leternal ifeminine 

seem queer to have a minister talk 
where folks expect to enjoy themselves, 
don't it ? 

Ouch! how my foot hurts! I'm try- 
ing to break in these shoes to wear to- 
night — I don't think anything is so swell 
as patent leather with white foxed kid 
tops, do you ? I never can get them on, 
though, till I've worn them for several 
days. 

Oh, good morning, Mrs. Romaine. . . . 
No, I'll be busy for some time — this lady's 
nails is awful obstinate. . . . Yes, ain't it 
a shame ? . . . I'm sorry, too. Can't you 
come in to-morrow? I can attend to 
you then. . . . All right — good-by. How's 
the baby ? . . . That's good. 

. . . Did you notice she was in mourning ? 
. . . It's her sister — she had an operation, 
and although she died, the doctor said 
14 



^be leternal ifeminine 

they could have the satisfaction of know- 
ing the operation was a great success and 
she died perfectly well. They think he's 
the grandest thing ever since. But I'm 
scared to death of those things — I'd 
rather be a coward and stay half sick all 
the time than be dead for the rest of my 
life. You never need your health so much 
as when you're sick and ain't got it. 

I had the ammonia myself last winter. 
It come on awful sudden. I fainted one 
day, and the first thing I knew I didn't 
know nothing at all, and when I did I 
wasn't any better. I suffered awful. 
They say consumption is a very pleasant 
disease — you don't have any pain and 
everybody waits on you. I'd rather be 
took gradual that way, too. 

That lady with her sister's operation — 
she was awful mad about her clothes. 
IS 



^be leternal feminine 

She'd got lovely things to wear to Palm 
Beach, but she says there's no use to go 
there and sit around all black — you can't 
have a good time — not that she wanted 
a good time, of course, but she thinks if 
they had delayed the operation till 
spring — as long as it had to turn out this 
way — it would have been pleasanter all 
around for everybody, and her sister 
wouldn't have minded waiting. 

See that lady over there, just come in ? 
. . . She doesn't look queer, does she? — 
just like any one else, for all you could 
tell. Well, she writes books — a book, 
anyway. She gave me one and it had 
wrote in the inside, ' ' Compliments of the 
author." I loaned it to our floor- walker 
to read, but he said it didn't seem to be 
nothing but words. He's terrible smart 
— he reads all the books that's wrote. 
i6 



^be leternal femlntne 

... No, I haven't read it myself. It's 
called ''Sought and Unsought — Nature's 
Wonder." . . . No, you couldn't get much 
idea from that. But I guess that's the 
way with the best books — they make 
them so you can't find out what they're 
talking about too easy. 

You wouldn't think she'd have so much 
of her mind on her looks, neither, but let 
me tell you, when I'm shampooing her 
if I get a little water down her neck she 
makes as much fuss as the next one. 

... Oh yes, we do massaging, too. 
We've got a wonderful soap — it would 
take that chin of yours right off. If my 
little sister could see you she would make 
so much fun of you it would set you crazy. 

Your hair needs touching up, too, 
around the edges. They do it lovely 
here. I wished you could see the lady 
2 17 



Zhc leternal feminine 

who was in here the other day. She 
looked a great deal worse than you do, 
and I wished you could have saw her 
when we all got through with her. She 
was kind of worn out, though. Her own 
family wouldn't have known her. She 
said she was coming in again this week, 
but she hasn't come — I don't know why. 
You know 370U look something like her, 
and at first I thought it might be her 
when you first come in. . . . We have a 
grand hair tonic, too. One lady I recom- 
mended it to, and it made her hair quit 
in half a bottle. 

... No, I can't. Miss Molloy~I haven't 
near finished this lady, and I'm going to 
my lunch on time to-day, and I don't 
care who knows it. . . . They think just 
because a girl works for her living she 
hasn't got any rights. 
18 



^be lEternal feminine 

. . . Miss Reilly, haven't you done that 
lady in blue yet? . . . What? . . . She's 
still dripping? Well, what's the matter 
with your dryer? . . . Broke again? 
Ain't that the luck! What about that 
brown lady, is she still wet, too? ... Oh 
dear! 

One of the shampoo girls is home sick — 
you remember that tall one ? . . . Yes, and 
that makes us short. . . . Her? Oh no, 
she wouldn't do nothing if we was all to 
drop dead in our tracks. She's awful 
stuck up — she's got engaged now, and she 
thinks she's too good to speak to nobody. 

Quick ! See that black lady going out ? 
. . . We skinned her last month — doesn't 
she look white ? She's got lots of money, 
and she's going to marry a young man 
who is in the same class with her son at 
college. Terrible, ain't it? 
19 



Z\)c jeternal feminine 

One of our girls got married last week, 
too. That upsets us. She's going to 
bring her husband in to show us when 
they get back. 

They've gone to Niagara Falls — one 
of those excursions. She had her choice 
of an imitation sealskin coat or the trip, 
and she said the coat would wear out 
some day, no matter how careful she was, 
and the Falls would last as long as she 
lived. . . . They had their pictures taken 
on a post-card with the Falls back of 
them, sitting on a wicker bench, holding 
hands, with a marble pillow with a plant 
on it on one side and a foot-stool in front. 

They have a lovely flat — one of those 
with a long hall and all the rooms on 
one side except the middle one, which is 
across. They're going to rent most of 
them. She got lovely presents. Her 
20 



Z\)c jeternal jfemlnlne 

married sister gave her a real cut-glass 
mirror. It had been one of her own 
wedding-presents — her husband is dead 
— he was massacred out in China during 
the Spanish War, I think. She's got one 
little boy. . . . Yes, it was one of her 
wedding-presents . 

. . . Did I say so ? . . . Yes, of course the 
mirror, I meant. He's a little terror — 
she's going to have an awful lot of 
trouble with him. 

I really think the parents who don't 
have any children are happier in the end 
— though it is lovely to have them the 
way they do now — all bows and things. 
My oldest sister just had a christening 
party for her third. I said she did, 
though, of course, it was my brother-in- 
law's, too — but if you could have seen 
him! It was terrible — my sister was so 

21 



Zhc lEternal 3femlnlne 

mortified — ^he acts awful when he ' s that 
way. He did the same thing when they 
christened their last one — started right 
out in the morning to celebrate, and by 
night when they all began to come — he 
was awful. She said this was the last 
one she'd ever have. . . . No, last christ- 
ening. 

There you are — don't they look grand ? 
You got lovely nails. You ought to 
come in every w^eek regular and let me 
do them for you. 

All right — ^just a minute. I want to 
show you our new Dew- Drop cream. 
There isn't anything it won't do to your 
skin if you only keep it up long enough. 
There was a lady in here the other day 
— she bought a dozen boxes. Her hus- 
band said she looked so different after 
she used it he didn't know what to make 

22 



^be leternal jfeminine 

of it. This Liquid Pink Perla is fine, 
too. Don't smear a bit and never shows 
in the daytime. . . . Oh, you prefer the 
dry kind? Well, here's one of our own 
make we guarantee. . . . You don't want 
it ? . . . All right. Good-by. Be sure to 
ask for me next time you come in — 
here's my card. You can pay me or at 
the desk — ^just as you like. 

. . . Well, what do you think of that, 
Ella — slaving like a dog for the last half- 
hour and not a darn tip! 



t^* t^^ t^'*' 

©verbearb at tbe Hcabemi? 

^^ ^^ t^* 



©verbearb at tbe Hcabem? 




;Y dear, I'm so sorry — have 
you been waiting long ? . . . 
Not really? Isn't it a 
shame! But you know I 
simply couldn't remember 
whether you said be here at half after 
two or half after three, and I thought if 
I got here at two-thirty and you weren't 
waiting I w^ould surely think you weren't 
coming at all, so if I got here at thi'ee- 
thirty there couldn't be a mistake. Be- 
sides, that just gave me two minutes to 
pop in and have my new foulard tried on. 
My dear, Juliette is a beast — first she 
27 



Z\)c jeternal jfeminine 

kept me waiting fifteen minutes and then 
I was one solid half -hour standing while 
she fitted me. But I knew you wouldn't 
be cross, for you are just the one woman I 
know who never gets disagreeable if you 
are kept waiting a few moments. 

Now Edith dear, I'm going to pay for 
the tickets. . . . Well, I want to — I 
shall be so hurt if you don't let me. . . . 
All right, dear, if that is the way you feel 
about it. I suppose we do need a cata- 
logue — I certainly will pay for that — you 
mUvSt let me. Oh dear — isn't that too 
stupid ! I have put my purse in my skirt 
pocket and I can't get at it without a 
little exhibition of my own. Thank you 
so much — you must remind me to pay 
you back the moment we get out of here. 
. . . Oh, I insist — I positively insist. . . . 
All right, dear, if you are going to be of- 
28 



Zbc jeternal ifeminine 

fended about it I sha'n't say another 
word. 

Heavens — these stairs — they're a^vful 
in these new skirts. By the time I get 
the front foot forward, the hind leg — I 
don't know any other way to put it — is 
bursting out the back seam. Here we 
are at last. I am out of breath. 

Where shall we begin? At the front 
end and work toward the big numbers, or 
backward and go frontward — you know 
what I mean. I usually begin in one 
comer, look all the way around without 
raising my eyes, then I go to the middle 
and look up and down, up and down, in 
rows — you understand — and in that way 
I don't miss anything. I made up this 
method when I was doing the picture- 
galleries on the Continent — I got so I 
could do any picture-gallery — no matter 
29 



Zhc leternal ifeminlne 

how big it was — in an hour. I'm awfully 
keen on art. 

You would ? . . . Oh, you wouldn't ? . . . 
Oh, you would ? ... All right. I think we 
had better begin by sitting down to rest. 
I stood so long at that hateful Juliette's 
my feet are nearly dead. Besides, I have 
new shoes on, and although they simply 
don't touch me — I always get them at 
least two sizes too large — I could swim in 
them, I assure you — still we might sit 
down for a few^ moments. 

What a relief! My dear, you did sit 
down w4th a bounce — I believe you are 
getting stouter. . . . No, no, don't be silly 
— I reall}^ didn't mean what you think 
I meant — I didn't mean you were really 
getting stouter — you just look as though 
you were. . . . Now, Edith, that isn't 
kind of you to misunderstand like that. 
30 



Z\)c jeternal ffemlnlne 

I'm really mad about art — I think, 
dear, I'll just slip off my shoes-— I can kick 
them under this bench — only for a mo- 
ment — and you trot about and tell me if 
there is anything worth looking at. The 
thing, after all, is to really have been 
here, isn't it? So few understand the 
true message Art has for us, anyway. It 
thrills me right to the bone. 

What's that? Sixty-eight, "Medita- 
tion." What a curious idea — a donkey 
looking over the fence into that field of 
carrots! . . . That zj right, my dear, that 
is right — I looked at the number. . . . 
Well, I can't go over — without my shoes 
— you look. 

Oh, it's that girl sitting under a tree 

with a book ? Now, really, wouldn't you 

think they would arrange the pictures so 

you couldn't make a mistake like that? 

31 



ZTbe leternal feminine 

Nobody seems to know their business 
nowadays. 

Now you look all over the other side of 
the room and I will look here — I can see 
everything, sitting — then you come back 
and describe the pictures to me, and if 
you think it worth while I will go over 
and look, too. . . . You had better leave 
the catalogue — unless, of course, you 
would like it. If you would, I will go 
straight down- stairs and get another if 
you say the word. Are you perfectly 
sure? . . . You are? . . . All right, then I 
will keep it, for there is no earthly use 
trying to make out what these things are 
without a catalogue. 

. . . Back so soon? . . . No, I haven't 

looked at anything yet — I have just been 

sitting here with my eyes closed trying 

to think of the exact shade I want for 

32 



Z\)c eternal jfeminlne 

the drawing-room paper. I want it all 
done over — that is — Well, my dear, you 
never hear me utter a complaint — but 
there are certain persons in my house — 
or his house, as he is always reminding 
me — who might be a little more generous 
with their money. Although, as you 
know, nothing would make me say one 
word against William, not one word, but 
when a man begins to make a woman feel 
that every penny he spends — Well, I 
am not going to say a word. And par- 
ticularly when a new paper would be pre- 
cisely as much for his benefit as mine — 
And then throwing the new piano in my 
face every few moments — and a measly 
little upright one at that, when I wanted 
one of those square ones with photo- 
graphs all over the top and a good bit of 
drapery hanging down. Let me tell you 
3 33 



Zhc lEternal ifeminine 

I have my troubles, although I never 
breathe them to any one — which is more 
than most women would do with all I 
have to put up with — but then, never 
mind. I shall keep my mouth closed no 
matter what any one else would do under 
the circumstances. 

Do go over and see what that pink- 
and- yellow mess is in the corner. . . . 
"Autumn Twilight"? Isn't that ridicu- 
lous! Who is it by? . . . Oh, indeed, is 
it? Well, of course when you begin to 
study it closely you see there is some- 
thing in it. Quite a beautiful bit, after 
all. You know you should really look at 
the painter's name first — it helps you 
with your criticisms. But of course I 
love Art for Art's sake — I sometimes wish 
I had gone in for a career of that sort. I 
once took a course of ten lessons and I 
34 



Z\)c leternal jfemtnlne 

really turned out some rather remarkable 
things. Not from the nude, you know, 
or anything vulgar like that, but a very 
refined little scene — a ship in a storm, 
with the rain coming down in torrents — 
and sheep in the foreground — on the 
beach, you understand — one black. You 
could almost hear the rain coming down 
and you could see the drops way across 
the room — ^just as natural — and you could 
tell the sheep were eating the grass. My 
teacher said she had never seen anything 
like it! 

Do you know, I think this year's Ex- 
hibition is even worse than last, don't 
you? There seems to be a general de- 
cline in Modern Art. 

. . . Yes, I suppose we had better move 
on. I have been fishing around with 
my foot for my shoe, and I can't seem 
35 



Z\)c Eternal jfeminine 

to find it. Would you mind just getting 
down and looking under? Ask that 
woman to move, will you ? — maybe she's 
sitting over it. . . . But it must be; I 
haven't moved off this bench since we 
came in here. It must be there — get 
farther under. . . . You're sure ? — Oh, 
my dear, how dirty you've gotten! 
what a pity! You know I really didn't 
want you — . . . Where can it be ? 

There, what's that horrid little boy 
got in his hand ? Run after him, 
quick, Edith — it's my shoe. . . . Thank 
you so much — the little wretch — chil- 
dren are so badly brought up, nowa- 
days. 

I am tired — picture - galleries are the 
most tiring things in the world. But 
then I believe in doing everything con- 
scientiously when you are about it. If 
36 



C;be lEternal feminine 

you don't mind I think I will sit down 
again while you look about. 

And just see the way they have these 
pictures jumbled up — no idea or order in 
the arranging. If they would have some 
rule about it. Now a good plan would 
be to have, say, all the '* After the Storm" 
pictures in a row and then on top of 
that all the ''Old Garden's." Or better 
still, I would put a row of small ones 
and then the next size on top of that 
and so on. Evidently no one has con- 
sidered an idea of this kind. 

Now, that portrait of a horse is good 
— ^what a lot of atmosphere he has in him! 
But I don't care for that cabbage-field 
next to him. . . . Oh, I think it is, but it 
is really never safe to decide what it is 
without consulting the catalogue. . . . 
Oh, ''A Battle-Field'' ! Why, they are 
37 



^be lEternal ffemlnlne 

not cabbages, but heads! You see, I 
was right — it's never safe to say any- 
thing till you look it up. Well, you 
know, "What is one man's Art is an- 
other man's poison." 

Do you know, dear, if you don't mind 
I think I will run along. I have enjoyed 
it so much, but I think I have probably 
seen everything worth while — and I 
don't think much of that. I must have 
a cup of tea. I would ask you to come 
with me, but I know you would rather 
keep on looking. Really, when you have 
seen one picture you have seen them all, 
for when you come down to it, there 
can't be so much difference in them, for 
when you analyze it — it's only paint and 
canvas, after all, isn't it? Good-by — I 
have enjoyed myself. Good-by. 



^^ ^^ ^^ 

Ipbotograpbing tbe Babi? 



Ipbotograpbing tbe Babi? 

Scene: The nursery „ A small, unat- 
tractive-looking child is screaming and 
roaring in apparent terrified rage, amid 
a riot of broken toys on the floor. Grand- 
mother, maiden aunt, father, mother, and 
a submerged and helpless nurse are 
grouped about, standing and kneeling, 
endeavoring, with unvarying ill success, 
to coax the infant into good nature and 
holiday garb. The mother, somewhat 
more determined than the rest, is dangling 
a clean white dress in one hand, and with 
the other she waves a maddening arrange- 
ment of bells and rattle, the sight of which 
seems to further infuriate the child. 
41 




pW, muzzer's angel must 
come and get dressed again. 
Edward, I think if you hold 
his feet, while grandma 
nips his hands and Aunt 
Ella steadies his head, we can get him 
into it — Maggie, you shake the bells as 
loud as you can to distract him, and then 
he won't notice what we are doing to 
him. I know this way isn't according 
to the instructions in the book, but he 
doesn't seem to respond to science this 
morning. 

... I cannot understand his antipathy 
to clothes. ... Now, Edward, that remark 
was entirely unnecessary, and when you 
42 



Zhc Eternal feminine 

know my nerves are already worn to a 
bone. You men are always saying the 
hatefulest things about the means we use 
to make ourselves look nice, but if we 
don't look well then you don't notice 
us. . . . Not at all; you men are quite as 
deceitful in your way, for when a man is 
trying to get a girl engaged to him he 
pretends he possesses all the loveliest 
traits of character, and then, when you 
do marry him, you find out he is quite 
different from what you thought. And 
if that isn't deception, criminal deception, 
I don't know what you call it ! . . . Now, 
grandma, don't you interfere — Edward 
is quite capable of taking care of himself. 
Now does it seem possible anything so 
small could scream so loud and be so 
determined? It does seem to me, with 
all of us here trying our best to amuse 
43 



Zhc leternal 3feminine 

him, he might be in a better temper. I 
do hope, Edward, he is not going to in- 
herit your disposition. . . . Now, grand- 
ma, that's not so at all — I'm not fault- 
finding. But you and Ella always side 
with Edward — no one ever agrees with 
me, no matter what I say — . . . Well, 
never mind, we won't discuss it now, and 
I don't want baby to see anything like 
dissension in the family — the book says 
anything of the kind is bad for him, the 
atmosphere must always be pleasant 
around him. . . . Well, I didn't begin it. 
... I certainly did not. 

Well, are we going to get this dress on 
him or are we not ? This is the last clean 
one he has. I do think, Maggie, when 
Mr. Tripp gave him his fountain-pen to 
play with, you might have seen he didn't 
pull the bung thing out of it and let the 
44 



Z\)c jeternal feminine 

ink all over him — particularly when you 
know how fond he is of upsetting ink- 
bottles. I have an idea he may be going 
to be an author. And he's got that bread 
and jam all over his hair — it's taken every 
bit of curl out of it. You know he always 
rubs it on his head if you don't watch him. 
It does seem to me, with all I've studied 
up about him in The Care of Infants, that 
you people might be a little more careful 
of him when I'm not around! 

There — that's the third time he's 
sneezed — I don't see how he can be taking 
cold in this hot room. . . . Why, Ella, why 
on earth did you let him have the pepper- 
pot to play with ? . . . Well, suppose he did 
insist on having it — you shouldn't have 
done it. What is the use of my disciplin- 
ing him if every time my back is turned 
he is allowed to do as he likes ? I wouldn't 
45 



^be jEternal feminine 

have let him have it, no matter how he 
went on. All the authorities say you 
must start in to be firm from the begin- 
ning, and stay so. . . . Oh, all right. . . . 
Good heavens, if he's going to scream like 
that let him keep it — Ella, give it back 
to him. But if you are all going to give 
in to him like that, all my work will go 
for nothing. 

Ella, can't you hold your hand over 
his mouth for one moment while I hear 
myself think ? . . . No, he won't, either — 
as long as you don't cover up his nose, 
too. . . o Well, don't, then — I want him to 
have a pleasant expression when he has 
his picture taken. 

. . . Now, are we all ready? Maggie, 
are you sure we haven't forgotten any- 
thing? Count up and see — you know 
we have seven things to carry. . . . No, 
46 



Zhc jEternal jfeminlne 

grandma, I am not going to take any of 
his toys — he's getting quite big enough 
to understand, and I'm not. . . . Oh, if he's 
going to go on Hke that — . . . Yes, he can 
take his fire-engine, and his Teddy bear, 
and his soldiers — ... No, he cannot take 
that great Punch-and-Judy show. Well, 
how on earth are we going to carry it? 
I suppose he's not going to stop crying 
till we do — we will have to take a cab now. 

Maggie, you haven't forgotten to put 
his bottle in the bag ? I suppose the man 
can heat it for us. . . . And the orange? 
. . . No, no, grandma, not the inside — of 
course — he just likes to lick it. 

Here's Edward with the cab — oh, dear, 
why did he get one with a brown horse — 
you know baby hates anything but a 
white horse like the one on his wagon. 
Good-by, everybody. 
47 



^be JEternal jfeminine 

. . . You see, just as I said. Every time 
I try to get in, Edward, he starts to 
scream. . . . Well, what is he going to 
look like for his picture with such a dread- 
ful expression and his face all snarled up ? 
You will have to get him another. No, 
Edward, it's no time to joke — white or 
cream-color — perhaps he wouldn't mind 
that. 

... Of course the man is cross about it 
— pay him something and get rid of him. 
We're late for the appointment now. 
And don't give him too much, Edward; 
remember the coal bill isn't paid yet! 
It does seem as though Prosperity no 
sooner gives you something with one 
hand, than she gives you a kick with the 
other. 

Oh, Edward, tell him to stop a moment 
— I want to look at those hats in that 
48 



tTbe leternal ifemlnine 

window. . . . Now, isn't that sickening — 
an exact copy of mine and just half the 
price ! 

. . . Now, I do hope he isn't going to 
keep us w^aiting — baby is so disagreeable 
when he has to wait. Do you know, 
Edward, I think he grows more like you 
every day. . . . No, I didn't, Edward — I 
didn't mean anything of the kind — you 
are so quick to take me up on every little 
thing I say, and I should think when you 
know how nervous I am .over baby's 
picture you wouldn't do everything in 
your power to irritate me. . . . Nothing of 
the kind — you're cross — I'm nervous — 
that's a very different thing. ... I sha'n't 
discuss it. 

(They enter the photo graph- gallery.) 
I do hope you aren't going to keep us 
waiting — the baby is very sensitive and 
4 49 



Z\)c leternal jfeminlne 

doesn't like to be kept waiting. He's a 
sweet-tempered boy, though. . . . Shake 
hands with the gentleman, dear. Put 
out your hand, darling — Oh no, sweet- 
heart, mustn't slap — just put your hand 
out — he's shy. Perhaps if you would 
come a little closer. „ . . There, now, 
darling — Oh, don't pull the gentleman's 
mustache — he's so full of fun, if you only 
understand it right — Why, he's sticking 
to you — where on earth did he get that 
candy? I believe Maggie gave it to 
him. . . . I'm so sorry — he didn't mean to 
— you can easily clean it off. . . . Yes, his 
little nails are sharp, too — . . . You have 
another appointment before us? . . . Oh 
yes, I know we're late. . . . All right — 
we'll sit here and wait. 

It seems he has some one before us, 
Edward. . . . Well, I know we're late, but 
50 



^be jeternal Jfeminine 

1 do think he needn't have let some one 
go before us. . . . You're late, too, for 
one of your business appointments ? Well, 
telephone and say you have been delayed 
or something — say I have been taken 
suddenly ill and you can't leave me — 
but don't tell an untruth Edward; I 
hate that telling of small lies — it's inex- 
cusable under any conditions. . . . Well, 
of course I suppose your business is im- 
portant, but aren't baby's pictures im- 
portant, too ? Good heavens ! here comes 
that horrid Kemp woman with that hate- 
ful little brat of a boy of hers ! I wouldn't 
have had her see me here for anything — 
I hope she doesn't catch sight of me — 
there, she has. . . . Oh, good morning, Mrs. 
Kemp ; isn't this nice to meet you ? And 
your dear little boy, too — what a darling 
he is. What's your name, dear? . . . 
51 



Z\)c leternal feminine 

Wainwright? My, what a big name for 
such a very little boy! . . . Why, no, Mrs. 
Kemp, I didn't mean he was undersized — 
that was just a silly little joke. . . . Come, 
Wainwright, come and speak to baby — 
that's a nice httle man. . . . There, baby, 
shake hands with Wainwright; that's a 
good darling. ... Oh, darling, don't slap. 
. . . Oh, I'm so sorry — I'm sure it wasn't 
baby's fault — he never slaps or does the 
least ill-natured thing — ^he has an angelic 
disposition — every one says so. I am 
sure if you had warned the boy it wouldn't 
have happened — baby is such a little 
gentleman, although he is so young. . . . 
There, Wainwright, don't scream so — 
baby didn't mean to hurt you — ^he only 
wanted to play. . . .It hurt just the same ? 
But you're too big a boy to cry over a 
little thing like that. . . . No, Mrs. Kemp, 
52 



Z\)c leternal jfeminlne 

baby certainly did not hit him at all — it 
landed on a soft spot, that's all — on his 
head, I think — baby is never cross unless 
some one annoys him. . . . Oh, are they 
ready for us to go up now ? . . . All right. 
... So pleased to have met you, Mrs. 
Kemp, and had this pleasant little 
chat. 

I must apologize to you for not having 
returned your last call before this, but 
I've been so awfully busy with one thing 
and another, and Mr. Tripp had a cold, 
and — and — well, good morning; I am 
so glad to have seen you. Good-by, 
Wainwright. 

Oh, Edward, wasn't that just like you 
— why didn't you say something and help 
me out ? . . . What ? Didn't want to in- 
terfere? Nonsense! I sometimes won- 
der if you really know how exasperating 
53 



^be jeternal feminine 

you can be at times. . . . Don't say any 
more about it now. 

Now ask the man to heat baby's bottle 
— he'll be cross if he doesn't get it — he's 
screwing up his face already. ... He says 
he can't? Well, tell him he mmst. . . . 
Dear, dear, I suppose he will have to do 
without it, then. Now, he's begun to 
scream — there ought to be some way — I 
never heard of such disobliging people. 
We ought to have brought mother along, 
although I must say I know how to man- 
age my own child, and don't thank any 
one, I don't care who it is, to give me 
any suggestions. There, now, muzzer's 
iamb mustn't cry any more and spoil his 
pretty face. Here's the orange — no, pet, 
no, mustn't try to bite it — only lick it. 
I should like to have him taken in his 
little shirt, but I think it is so embarrass- 
54 



Z\)c jeternal feminine 

ing for people after they have grown up 
and the family album is brought out for 
visitors and you are displayed with noth- 
ing on. It does seem to me his hair never 
stuck up quite so stiff and straight be- 
fore — I don't dare brush it any more — 
his scalp is quite red already.. Is the 
operator ready for us ? I'm sure baby is 
going to take cold in that icy studio. 

. . . Yes, this is the baby — -he's such a 
handsome child I am sure you can't fail 
to get a good picture of him. ... Oh no, 
I shouldn't care for him sitting like that 
with the book — you can see he's hardly 
old enough to read — that looks too ridicu- 
lous. ... Oh no, he's too young to stand 
alone — he couldn't do that. ... Oh no, 
he couldn't sit in a chair by himself for 
a moment. . . . No, I can't hold him, 
either — you see, I never thought about it, 
55 



Z\)c leternal jfeminlnc 

and I simply can't go down to posterity 
in a last year's hat! Oh no, I couldn't 
do that under any consideration. . . . No, 
my husband couldn't hold him, either — I 
can't bear pictures of fathers holding 
their children — it looks as though you 
couldn't afford a nurse, or you were a 
suffragette. ... Oh no, I shouldn't at all 
like him sitting on that table leaning 
against the palm — it seems such an un- 
child-like attitude. I don't know — Mr. 
Tripp might get under the table and 
steady his legs — if you have a cover and 
they wouldn't stick out. . . . You wouldn't 
do it, Edward? Well, I think that is 
very inconsiderate of you. I suppose we 
will have to risk the chair, then. 

. . . Now, didn't I tell you he won't sit 
there a moment ? . . . Shake something at 
him. ... Oh no, I didn't mean anything 
56 



(tbe leternal feminine 

like that — something to amuse him — now 
you've only frightened him and he has 
begun to cry again. When he . begins 
roaring with that peculiar sound at the 
beginning — you never know when he will 
stop — if you could only have heated 
his milk. ... I know that — I suppose 
other people have not asked you — but 
that is no reason why I shouldn't. He's 
such a sweet-tempered child ordinarily, 
when he has his own way — but I never 
think of giving in to him under any cir- 
cumstances. I think he has taken a dis- 
like to you, and we will probably have 
trouble before we are through. 

There, I knew it — he's fallen and 
bumped himself. Edward, I do think 
you might have watched him when I 
turned my back for one single second. 
. . . Now, don't say another word about 
57 



Zhc leternal ifemlnlne 

that old appointment of yours — I am 
nearly in hysterics myself. There, there, 
darling, do stop crying. Where are his 
toys ? Edward, you left them in the cab 
— how could you be so thoughtless? . . . 
Well, it certainly was your fault — I sup- 
pose we will never get them back again. 
. . . And he's cried all over his clean dress 
and it looks like a rag. 

There, now, if he will only stay still a 
minute — No, darling, don't turn your 
head away. . . . Look at mother, dear. 
No, no, dear — not at the man — you see 
you annoy him. I think it's your hair — 
not that there's anything strange about 
it — but baby isn't used to seeing hair stand 
up like yours. Now, look at mother, 
darling. See the birdie on mother's hat. 
. . . No, dear, not on the floor — ^hat — ^hat. 
. . . Look at mother's hat. . . . No, no, 
58 



/ 




NO IMUSTN T DO THAT WITH FATHER S WATCH 



Z\)c jeternal feminine 

darling, don't put your foot in your 
mouth. . . . Why, no, Edward, it covers 
his face all up — we couldn't have it taken 
like that. And his eyes are just swollen 
out of his head with all this crying. . . . 
Let him take your watch and perhaps 
that will put him in a better humor. . . . 
There, now, see him smile — I always 
know what will please him. . . .No, darling, 
don't bang it about, dear. . . . No, mustn't 
do that with father's watch. Oh, dar- 
ling — right on the floor! . . . 

Well, Edward, you needn't blame me. 
How did I know he was going to slam it 
on the floor? And you see he's crying 
again because you won't let him have it 
back. I suppose it can be fixed — prob- 
ably it needed repairing, an3rway. 

I think if the man got down on his 
hands and knees and played bear with 
59 



Zbc jeternal Jfeminine 

him for a while it might make him feel 
better. . . . What ? You're too busy this 
morning? I should think — No, baby, 
sit still — mother is not going to take you 
up now — you must learn to mind what 
mother tells you — you're quite big enough, 
and when I say no, I mean no — all right, 
then, if you are going to cry again. There 
— that's a good expression — try to catch 
it — But he looks cross-eyed like that — 
. . . You had noticed he was cross-eyed ? 
Edward, Edward, are you going to per- 
mit this man to say our child is cross- 
eyed ? . . . What ? You had noticed your- 
self he was slightly — All I can say is 
you are a most unnatural father — Never 
mind — 

But you might try to take him side- 
ways — my mother so often sits that way 
— it would look quite natural — Now, 
60 



^be jeternal jfemlnlne 

darling, stay the way the man has put 
you — No, don't turn this way now. 
No, no, we want you looking the other 
way, now — Did you ever see anything 
so exasperating! . . . There's no use when 
he gets that obstinate look on his face — 
so like you, Edward — you can't do a 
thing with him. We will have to wait 
awhile now until he gets over it — I can't 
tell how long it will be — it takes him so 
long sometimes. 

. . . You have to go to your lunch now ? 
But you haven't taken a single picture 
yet — . . . It isn't your fault ? — can't waste 
any more time? Edward, did you hear 
that ? . . . You can't waste any more time, 
either ? Disgusting — I shall tell the man 
down-stairs — and I shall take particular 
pains to tell all my friends how I have 
been treated in this place and just what 
6i 



Z\)C JEternal jfemlnine 

sort of people you are. Edward, look out 
of the way. 

Come, muzzer's angel — we'll go straight 
home! 



^^^ tZ^ •^' 

^be Xab? Ibelp 



J' 



^ 



Z\)c Xab? Ibelp 




!00D MORNING, m'm. . . . 
Yes, m'm, I'm the lady 
you telephoned about to 
the registry office — a dread- 
ful place for a lady — some- 
thing I've never been used to — sitting 
about with persons like that — and you 
can see I am one and have always been 
one, though I do say it as perhaps I 
shouldn't. If my dear father was alive 
to see what I've gone through, he would 
be turning in his grave at this very 
minute — not that I would want him to. 
And just as I was leaving it to come here 
5 65 



Zhc leternal jfeminlnc 

a young woman made a disturbance, and 
they had to inject her out of the room. 
vSuch a shock to any one with the educa- 
tion and upbringing I have had — not 
that I ever burden any one with my 
troubles — I always try to be bright and 
cheerful and not worry any one, but it is 
hard when you have come down in the 
world as I have. If my poor father — and 
I wonder if you ever knew him ? He was 
one of the best-known men near Brad- 
ford — he was the noted tripe-dresser of 
Siddersley — he was an artist in his line — 
everybody said so — so you can see what 
I came from. You might have seen his 
sign any day you liked coming up High 
Street — third turn on the left after pass- 
ing Mrs. Malley's bake-shop, where you 
could always find her face looking out 
through the loaves of bread — with a blue 
66 



Z\)c leternal feminine 

pig on it and two little ones, pink, play- 
ing about in the grass, which was blue — 
my father thought it was more elegant 
because different — we went in for style 
a great deal in those happy days. Ah, 
well, I'm the last one to talk about the 
injustices I have suffered from in this 
world, but if my poor father — 

. . . N-n-o — not exactly married now — 
I was just coming to that. As I was 
about to sa}^ I've always lived private 
before, and felt a registry office was quite 
beneath me with my refined feelings and 
education. In fact, my first husband 
used to tell me very often I was one of 
the most perfectly refined ladies he had 
ever met — and I never denied it. I was 
more of an ornament to him than any- 
thing else. 

.... Yes, m'm, two — one dead, the 
67 



Zbc leternal jfeminine 

other — the second — at large. About him 
— it was one Sunday afternoon when I 
was down at Southend with a lady friend 
of mine, just for the afternoon to get a 
breath of fresh air. We'd had only a 
light luncheon and we was discussing 
whether we would have tea with a 
kipper or a pint of cockles — Mrs. Hobbles 
— that was her name — was all for tea, 
but I can't bear a cup of hot tea on a 
warm day, so I was for the cockles, so 
we decides on cockles, I being perfectly 
polite about it and wishing to please 
both. So we stops in front of a very 
nice stall and gets the cockles. And 
right then and there, m'm, as though it 
was fate I should have chose cockles, I 
meets my second husband. ... Oh no, 
m'm, we wasn't married then — we hadn't 
met; but he asks me if I would care for 
63 



ttbe £tetnal jfeminine 

the salt, like a perfect gentleman — I 
could tell that at once, and then from one 
thing on we enters into a conversation, 
and then we all strolls on to the pier and 
there in the crowd we loses Mrs. Hobbles, 
and by the time we took the last train 
home at night we was both of the same 
mind — though different after — and in the 
spring we gets married. 

Well, it never enters my head to make 
any inquiries about him, but I takes him 
as is, as he takes me, as is, and then I 
finds he has four boys and a girl in the 
country — him turning out to be a widow- 
er and me not knowing it, being of a 
trusting disposition as I says, and ask- 
ing no questions and giving no answers 
— give and take has always been my 
way. So, of course, I ups and leaves him, 
and there you are and here I am, as they 
69 



Zhc leternal feminine 

say. If my poor father — But I'm 
sure to suit you. 

. . . Oh no, m'm, he doesn't bother 
me much now. Once when I tried an- 
other place — but I didn't stay because 
the lady wasn't any lady — he found out 
where I was and came and smashed the 
area window one night about twelve 
o'clock and frightened everybody to 
death. The lady was an invalid — a real 
one — first they said it was nooraliga, 
then they found it was something wrong 
in her eternal organs — they thought it 
was a burglar, so I had to call out it was 
my husband. ... Oh no, m'm, you needn't 
be afraid of that — he won't bother me 
any more. 

How many in fam'ly, please ? . . . Oh, as 
many as that ? I don't suppose, though, 
you want much waiting on. ... Oh no, 
70 



Z\)c jEternal jFeminine 

of course I don't mind what I do — I am 
perfectly willing to do anything you would 
want me to, but I have never been used 
to doing any menial work, and I'm not 
very strong — But I'm always cheerful 
and willing to oblige, no matter what 
it is. 

Do you entertain much? ... Oh, you 
do — I shouldn't like to do any waiting or 
anything like that in front of strangers 
and be looked down upon and have them 
forget I was once somebody myself. And 
as good a home, too, as any one need 
have, and always meat twice a week and 
fish for Stmday morning breakfast, and 
sometimes a haddock for tea — I have al- 
ways lived genteel. I can play the piano 
a little, though, and could help entertain 
your friends that way, and my parrot — 
. . . Oh yes, m'm, I couldn't go any- 
71 



Zhc leternal Jfemlnine 

where without Dodo. I haven't any 
piano now, but I have a little concertina ; 
I like to play for an hour or so before I 
go to bed at night — it doesn't take up 
much room, and one or two hymns sort 
of sets me up. And sometimes along in 
the middle of the night — I don't rest so 
well since my second — second husband — 
I like to get up and play a few tunes to 
soothe me and send me to sleep again. 

. . . Oh no, m'm, the other servants 
wouldn't mind, besides they would soon 
get used to it. How many do you keep ? 
... Is that all ? I thought by the looks 
of the outside of the house — but, of 
course, I saw the difference the minute 
I got inside. I suppose you wouldn't 
expect me to eat with them, would you ? 
. . . Oh, you would? Of course, I don't 
mind anything you would want — I have 
72 



Zhc Eternal ffemlnine 

a good disposition and very obliging — 
but I shouldn't — the other lady where I 
stopped, the invalid, she saw at once I 
was a lady and treated me more like a 
friend. She was a bit weak-minded, too, 
but she never forgot I had seen better 
days, and treated me as such. Once a 
lady, always a lady — I can tell one the 
minute I see it myself. I have never 
done any real hard work — my first 
wouldn't let me — he was afraid I would 
spoil my hands. He treated me like a 
graven image under a glass case, much 
more than a human being. 

I suppose I could have the evenings 
to myself? I am attending a course of 
night-lecture reading now, and I shouldn't 
like to miss that. I could get you a 
ticket some time if you would — . . . You 
wouldn't? ... I used to recite in my 
73 



Zbc Eternal ]feminine 

young days, too. There was one I used to 
do, "The Maniac's Bride " — I did it once 
for a manager when I thought of going 
on the stage, and he said he had never 
heard anything Hke it. Perhaps you 
would — . . . Well, I could some other 
time if you would like it. 

Do you have all of the w^ashing put 
out? . . . You don't? I shouldn't like 
that. Of course, I am perfectly willing 
to work and do anything you ask me 
to, but I didn't suppose any one would 
ask me to — And any one can see I 
was once a lady. . . . No, I have never 
waited on table, and shouldn't like to. 
. . . No, I couldn't do any cooking ... a 
hot kitchen always gives me a headache 
since I have had so many troubles. If 
my poor father — 

I could go and live with my brother, 
74 



Z\)c jeternal ]feminine 

but my sister-in-law — that's his wife — 
we don't get on together — she has a 
nasty disposition and no book-learning 
to speak of. She was a milliner's appren- 
tice down Kensal wa}^ — and I says to 
my brother before he marries her, I says, 
I remember it just as well as though it 
was yesterday — it was on a Saturday 
night — I remember it because William 
always wore a green tie with white spots 
of a Saturday evening — I says to him, 
"William," I says, "William, mark my 
words, if you marry that milliner girl 
with her head full of feathers and things, 
it will bring you no good." And it 
hasn't. You couldn't expect her to be 
anything than light-headed, though I 
say all her troubles she has brought on 
herself of her own doing. 

No notion of bringing the children up 
75 



Zhc jeternal feminine 

properly, and with no idea of making 
them show a decent respect for me — not 
a bit of it. They behave terrible, and 
last winter the youngest child — the sec- 
ond but one — ^had the whooping-cough — 
and with no flannels — and she so fond of 
clothes herself — running about the nursery 
without a stitch on. She's so vain — let- 
ting the children go without a sole to 
their boots as long as she has a hat to 
her head — although she did make them 
herself, as she says, and has a right to 
do as she pleases. They have just bought 
a lovely suite of parlor furniture, second- 
hand, but you would never know it — 
not a scratch on it — covered with green 
carpet-like, with red and yellow roses on 
a brown ground. And an iniitation palm, 
nothing real about it — except the dust on 
the leaves — in a brass pot with chains on it. 
76 



^be jeternal femlntne 

And they bought a cow, too, from a 
reduced widow-lady — she had to sell out 
— little old, and part of one ear gone — in 
a fight once the dog bit it off — ^they didn't 
buy it, though — on account of the chil- 
dren — but it didn't affect the butter. I 
must say my sister-in-law can make good 
butter when she's a mind too. And her 
hide like satin — you see she was made a 
sort of pet of — she had been brushed 
every day — but when the}^ bought her 
the children wouldn't keep it up, and 
my sister-in-law said she wasn't going 
to play manicure to the best cow that 
ever lived. So, of course, she never 
looked the same after. I don't blame 
her for that, but she shouldn't have 
treated me the way she did. I used to 
like to get dressed of an afternoon and 
sit in the drawing-room window in one 
77 



Zhc jeternal feminine 

of the best chairs, with a bit of needle- 
work — nothing heavy — something lady- 
like and genteel — and she wanted me to 
do the children's mending instead— V with 
the door closed and a bit of fire in the grate 
and a cup of tea later. But when she in- 
sisted on spreading the Weekly Busy Bee 
all over the chair before I sat on it, for 
fear it would get hurt — she was so sar- 
castic — I felt the sting of it all and I told 
her I was a lady, if she couldn't see it and 
wasn't, and she and the children could 
go to perdition for all of me — the sooner 
the better, and I hoped she would have 
bad luck to the end of her days. And 
off I went and here I am — 

... Oh yes, m'm, you'll find I have a 

nice, sweet disposition — always kind to 

animals and dumb beasts and human 

beings alike. I suppose you wouldn't 

78 



Zhc jeternal jfemlntne 

want me to wear a cap? . . . Oh, you 
would? I shouldn't like to do that, al- 
though I am always willing to oblige 
and don't care what I do. With my 
first I always wears a cap for breakfast — 
I think every lady does — but only for 
looks. Excuse me, m'm, but have you 
a husband ? You don't mind my asking, 
but when a lady starts to live out she 
can't be too particular with whom she's 
going to live. ... Oh, you're a widow, too, 
just with relations living with you? 
0-h-h — It does seem sort of strange 
for a widow-lady to be living alone with 
no husband and only relatives with her 
— not that I mean to criticize by so say- 
ing. Has he been dead long? . . . You 
don't care to talk about it? I hope it 
was a nice comfortable disease, like con- 
sumption, where they lay quiet and don't 
79 



Z\)c £tetnal 3feminine 

rush about and break things Hke fits. 
Poor dear father was took with them quite 
awful — usually of a Saturday night — it 
was very hard on us he used to break so 
much furniture. He used to see a green 
lizard he said, but mother and I couldn't 
find it, though he used to declare it was 
walking on the wall. But once when I 
had a cold and some one made me take 
a hot alcohol punch, well, father came in 
with one of his fits and began crying 
about the lizard walking on the wall, 
and I looked up and this time, if you will 
believe it, I saw two! But that was the 
only time. Poor dear father — I never 
see an old broken chimney-pot but what 
it makes me think of him — there used to 
be one just across the street from where 
we lived. 

My sister, she's married, too, and I could 
80 



Zbc leternal jfemininc 

live with her if I Hked, but her husband 
and I don't get along well together — he 
has such a bad disposition. My sister 
can't see it, though I did my best the 
last time I visited her to show her where 
George wasn't doing his duty by her, 
but all the thanks I got for my pains was 
a polite hint from him that my company 
wasn't wanted any longer. My sister 
doesn't understand bringing up children 
neither — her two boys were running 
about the streets using bad language 
before they could walk or talk. And 
many the spanking I gave them unbe- 
knownst to their parents, but it didn't 
do any good — in one ear and out the 
other. One of the boys swallowed a 
penny while I was there — though where 
he got it I don't know — I never saw any 
money lying around so you could notice 
6 8i 



Z\)c jEternal jfeminine 

it. He nearly killed himself, but we 
gave him an anecdote quick — mustard 
and water — and then held him up by the 
heels and shook him — it flew right across 
the floor, and the younger boy picked it 
up quick and put it in his bank — it's the 
only way, though he didn't like it at the 
time — a stitch in time covers a multitude 
of sins, I always say. 

. . . What? You don't think I will 
suit? Well, I would have thanked you 
to have told me that before I came, and 
saved me the trouble of wasting all my 
time. I was just about to tell you I 
wouldn't think of stopping in this house. 
If my poor dear father — I wish you a 
very good morning! 



^^^ ^r^ ^r^ 

^be Countr? p06t-®fnce 



Zhc Conntv^ poet-Office 

The combination post-office and store is 
situated a considerable distance from any- 
where, and is set close to the roadside. 
It is of no particular school of archi- 
tecture, nondescript in color and vaguely 
reminiscent of underdone pastry. The 
interior is pervaded with a composite odor, 
a curious blend of codfish, tobacco, leather, 
kerosene, peppermint, tar, sassafras, axle- 
grease, molasses, and a certain moist and 
indeterminate fragrance emanating from 
the syrup reservoirs of the hard-working 
soda-fountain. The front right-hand 
85 



Zbc jeternal jfemlnlne 

space of the store is devoted to the post- 
office, the postmistress being also assist- 
ant dispenser in the goods department. 
At various vantage-points are displayed 
brilliant- colored lithographs setting forth 
the multifarious virtues of particular 
liniments whose remarkable curative prop- 
erties are equally beneficial to man or 
beast. A new chicken food breeds ex- 
traordinarily stout birds, of a build and 
plumage never beheld save on the de- 
scriptive poster. Giant ruby beets, saf- 
fron turnips, and carmine radishes the 
size of potatoes, burst from the same bed 
treated by a magic fertilizer. A mon- 
ster bill, portraying impossibly huge cat- 
tle, announces the plethora of attractions 
to be viewed at the approaching county 
fair. Close behind the counter an at- 
tenuated yellow-and-white cat nests cozi- 
86 



^be jeternal ifeminine 

ly on an open box of crackers. The post- 
mistress, lean of outline, but ample of 
tongue, steps forward to the goods counter 
to greet a customer. 




[ELL, land o' livin^ if 'tain't 
Mis' Libby! I ain't seen 
you in a month o' Sundays. 
How's all the folks up to 
your house ? . . . Still havin' 
them spells, is he? Queer he don't get 
over 'em — one way or 'tother. Why 
don't you try some o' this new-fangled 
boneless surgery? Mis' Lamb's Kitty's 
always goin' in for all kinds o' new doc- 
torin', an' she says she's sure it's goin' 
to do her a lot o' good, it's so dretful 
painful. . . . 

Ain't never heard of it? Well, it's 
s'prisin' what some folks don't never 
hear about. . . . Oh no, she ain't sick 
88 




VOft.iicf' u'-'^^^ 




THE POSTMISTRESS STEPS FORWARD TO THE GOODS COUNTER TO 
GREET A CUSTOMER 



^be Eternal ]feminine 

none — leastways their own doctor 
couldn't find nothin' the matter with her, 
so she says she felt pizen sure she had 
some hidden, eternal trouble that hadn't 
come out, an' she'd heard these here 
doctors was diff'runt an' could find some- 
thin' wrong with you when nobody else 
can. You see they say, "I understand it 
— the trouble's all in your j'ints. They 
ain't put together right — some's too loose 
an' some ain't tight enough." So they 
pull 'em out or push 'em in, as the case 
seems to be. 

Yes, it does seem to be inquirin' too 
deep into the unscrutinizin' ways o' 
Providence, but Kitty, she's sot on it, 
an' she says any one can learn it in a 
few lessons, an' she's goin' to take a 
course. She says she thinks there's 
more in it than dressmakin', an' peo- 



^be leternal feminine 

pie can't send back if they ain't 
suited. 

She says you ain't any idea how solid 
you're hitched together till you get one 
o' them oysterpath doctors after you. 
She was fastened together all wrong ; the 
doctor give her to understand the whole 
job was botched. One day he showed 
her a skeleton's head down to the office, 
an' an image of a foot. She said you 
ain't any idea how undressed you look 
in your bones. Well, it's keepin' up with 
the times, I s'pose. 

Them piece-goods ? Well, now, I ain't 
recommendin' none o' them goods to you. 
They ain't all they's represented. You 
know Mis' Snell she bought a dress o' that 
green-an' -purple plaid with the fine line 
o' yellow runnin' through it — dretful 
han'some pattren. Well, she hadn't wore 
90 



Z\)c jeternal feminine 

that dress but three years 'fore she made 
it over into a sort o' party dress for the 
church sociables — she put a wide green 
satin belt on it an' a bunch o' make- 
believe forget-me-nots pinned on the 
shoulder — it touched it up wonderful, I 
don't like her, but she knows how to look 
dressy. One night Lem Hulick spilt 
lemonade all down the front of it, so she 
took the back breadths — they was kind 
o' narrow — an' made Johnny a real cute 
pair o' pants. You mightn't b'lieve it, 
but first time he set down hard in 'em 
they all busted out. No, it ain't real 
strong goods as it should be — I can't 
recommend it for wear — but if you want 
somethin' just to look at, you'll go far 
'fore you'll find anything near so pretty. 
. . . Yes, you better wait — the fall goods 
will be comin' in soon. 
91 



Z\)c Eternal jfemlninc 

Terrible how near Mis' Beeks come to 
losin' little 'Bijah. You'd think she'd 
know all about childern, havin' buried 
six. . . . You didn't hear ? She's so care- 
less. Why, they took him to the camp 
meetin' over to Swamp Lake, an' while 
they was havin' the special service for 
the salvation of childern, 'Bijah got too 
near the edge, an' fell in an' would never 
have gotten over the drowndin' if it 
hadn't been for the artificial perspiration 
they worked on him. ... Oh yes, it sp'iled 
the day for 'em — specially after they 
found they had laid him too near the 
lunch-basket, an' the victuals was all 
water- soaked. 

My land, but I'm just about tuckered 

out. If them city boarders up to Mis' 

Binney's don't stop gettin' so many o' 

them picture postal cards from furrin 

92 



n 



Zl)c leternal feminine 

parts I'm goin' to quit ! Ain't no int'rest- 
in' readin' on 'em, neither. An' not one 
of 'em what stops to .think o' me, standin' 
here by the hour st ampin' them 'tarnel 
things! An' they ain't content with 
that, but come rampagin' down here at 
all hours o' the day an' always wantin' 
somethin' I ain't got or never heam tell on ! 
This here candy's been here sence last 
spring — an' et off by the very best people 
in this village, an' it ain't good enough 
for 'em! Just 'cause it's a little bit 
dusty, I s'pose. Asked if I didn't keep 
no better — so I got in twenty-five pounds 
the best I could get, an' you won't b'lieve 
me, I hadn't had it a week 'fore the 
very last scrap was sold. And askin' me 
if I don't keep candy — last I'll get o' 
that — Keep! There ain't no keep to 
it! I can't stand that. 
93 



Z\)c leternal feminine 

Yes, just what I say — strange them city 
folks 'ain't got no sense. P'r'aps it's 
'cause they're always tearin' round so 
fast in all that noise doin' nothin'. Them 
Donaldsons built their front porch in the 
back o' the house just 'cause they had a 
view! Can you beat that? Think o' 
havin' nothin' better to do than stan' 
'round an' look at scen'ry. An' they got 
one o' them white iron bath-tubs put in — 
an' they're only goin' to stay here three 
months in the year — if that ain't a sinful 
waste o' good money. . . . That's it, they 
ain't any idea how to spend for comfort 
— it's just reckless show. 

Mis' Sneeder's 'Manda Annabel she 
done some chores up there to help out, 
an' she says they had the queerest no- 
tions. She says at meal-times they done 
nothin' but laugh an' talk all the time — 
94 



Zl)c jeternal ^feminine 

you wouldn't 'a' had any idea they was 
eatin'. An' they keep the blinds an* 
winders open all day long — lettin' the 
wind an' air right in on everything. She 
wSaid it was sinful. An' they ain't never 
in the house. You'd think if they got 
so much money an' book-learnin' as they 
make out, they'd stay inside — more 
private. In the parlor 'stead o' the 
settin'-room, with the blinds drawed, an' 
readin' some respirin' work. That's my 
idea o' elegunce, an' I guess I ain't far 
wrong. The young lady is real del'cate. 
The cook told 'Manda the doctor kept 
her on a diet since last spring — one o' 
them furrin names for a sofy, I guess. 
Poor thing, she must get dretful tired o' 
layin' there so long. An' they don't give 
her no spoon victuals at all. 
Well, I snum, if there ain't Mis' Hitch- 
95 



tCbe jEternal ifeminine 

cock comin' up the hill now. She must 
o' got out o' that last batch o' jell quick- 
er' n she thought. Here, T-o-m-m-my — 
T-o-m-my — run over home quick's you 
can an' tell Hiram not to take all day 
'bout his dinner an' hurry back an' help 
me. Landy Goshen, I 'ain't more'n one 
pair o' hands to answer fool questions 
with at the letter winder an' wait on 
customers! Beats all how you get im- 
posed on. 

She's gettin' stout. See how she puffs 
comin' up that hill. An' she looks sour 
'nough to cruddle ev'ry pan o' milk in 
the butt'ry. She don't get no good out 
o' life 'tall — she ain't never happy unless 
she's miserable worryin' over somethin'. 
I stopped in the other night while she 
was renchin' the supper dishes, an' the 
way she was goin' on 'bout ole Mis' 
96 



I 



Zl)c JEternal jfeminine 

Hitchcock was a caution. She says she 
'ain't no real objection to her, but she's 
so set up 'cause she thinks no one can 
do piece quiltin' quite so good's she can. 
Sets there in Mis' Hitchcock's settin'- 
room winder all day long, takin' up the 
place an' sun she wants for her geraniums. 
She says it's good for her bronical tubes. 
'Course Mis' Hitchcock don't begrudge 
her nothin', seein' how she's goin' to 
'herit her Paisley shawl an' her silver 
sugar-bowl with the knobs on it. But 
her settin' there in that sun, takin' it 
away from them plants as she wants to 
thrive an' live an' — Well, I ain't sayin' 
nothin' to no one, an' there ain't none 
as can say I opened my mouth at the 
wrong time an' did no hurt to no one by 
so doin'! 
Well, I guess I got a dose all ready for 
7 97 



^be leternal ]fcmlnlne 

her. She's got a letter pos'marked — as 
near as I could make out — where his 
folks come from, an' I miss my guess if it 
ain't from ole Mis' Hitchcock to say she's 
comin' to spend the winter with 'em 
again. It's 'bout the time she usually 
writes to say if she's comin'. . . . Try some 
o' them new lemon crackers in the barrel 
while I'm waitin' on her — she won't be 
long. 

Well, Mis' Hitchcock, how be you? 
Lookin' kind o' peaked for you. . . . An' 
your head ain't stopped yet? . . . Still 
goin' 'round an' 'round? . . . That's just 
like Mis' Muggs' sister. They never could 
tell when she was goin' to start in with 
one o' them spells — like as not it would 
be Monday, when there was an extra 
heavy wash, or they was gettin' ready 
for comp'ny, or it was house-cleanin* 
98 



Z\)c JEternal ^feminine 

time — couldn't tell nothin' 'tall 'bout it. 
. . . Yes, just the same. She's so nervous 
you never know how anything 's goin' to 
'feet her. She suffers terrible. 'Tother 
day I was down there, an' she'd got 'em 
all scairt to death say in' she was goin' to 
suicide herself. Said she couldn't stan' 
it no longer — she just wanted to die right 
off. I wanted her to try one o' Peters' 
Petrified Pellets for Perverted Persons, 
but she wouldn't — she says there might 
be somethin' dangerous in it. The whole 
fam'ly's awful sot in their ways. I sent 
her over an elegant mess o' peas the 
other day, but I s'pose she won't touch 
'em. 

Oh yes, there is a letter for you. Here 
it is. Will you set down an' read it 
here ? . . . No ? . . . All right — I hope you'll 
get over your head soon. Good-by. 
99 



^be jEternal jfemlnine 

Say, ain't that just like her ? Wouldn't 
open that letter here, so's not to give me 
the satisfaction o' knowin' whether his 
mother's comin' or not. She wouldn't 
give out a piece o' news not if 'twould 
kill her. 

There's a postal come for Mis' Kinney 
from Susie — she's comin' up soon to 
spend two weeks with her. Her writin's 
awful hard to make out. Mis' Kinney 
says Susie says they're terrible exclusive 
up to Midgeville Corners. That means 
none of 'em pay 'tention to anybody else. 
She says it's very swell, an' so she likes 
it all right, but it's terrible lonesome at 
times, so she goes down to the kitchen an' 
has a dish o' tea an' a bit o' gossip with 
her hired girl. She says style is wearin' ! 

There goes Minnie Stodger buggy-ridin' 
with Seth Trumann again ! Say, I think 

lOO 



Z.bc jeternal jfemtnine 

it's a sin the way her mother lets her go 
on. An' look at that long feather she's 
got on — hanging down near to her waist, 
or where it ought to be if she had any 
waist. Mis' Crocker says they raise 
special ostriches now for them long 
feathers. Beats all how they can im- 
prove on Nature nowadays, but 'taint no 
more than Addie Smedley can do herself. 
Them paper roses she makes are a sight 
more real lookin' than any flowers that 
ever was growed. An' talk about im- 
provin' on Nature — you know Marthy 
Runk's Jo, what got his leg took off un- 
intentional in the sawmill, an' they 
didn't know's he ever would be no good 
to 'em — when 'long come Addie, an' how 
she done it I dunno, but some way she 
made him a false leg as would go twict 
as well as the other. In fact, he had to 

lOI 



^be jeternal feminine 

run most o' the time to keep up with 
it! 

Well, I'm just tellin' you what I heard. 
We all thought Marthy would be some 
'bliged, for they say them store-made 
legs is awful dear if you only buy one at 
a time. But would you b'lieve it, ev'ry 
time she wanted Jo to mind the baby or 
go on a errand, that there leg of his'n 
would rare right up an' run off with him 
in 'tother direction as she wanted him to 
go, 'spite of all he could do. I don't 
know^ what they'll do 'bout it. Seems a 
shame to take off a leg as is such a good 
fit, yet it seems like flyin' in the face o' 
Providence to keep it on. Dretful hard 
to decide them questions without causin' 
dissatisfaction. 

Say, Mary Jane Crocker's goin' to have 
the law on her new husband. . . . That's 

102 



I 



^be jEternal feminine 

it — she ain't sure what he's done, but 
she's heard tell he married some one else 
down to his home town afore he got 
hitched to her, so she's goin' to sue him 
for bigotry. She says she's willin' to 
forgive him after a while, though she's 
goin' to put him in the lockup now. She 
says it'll be a good chance for her to get 
all his winter underwear darned good — • 
he won't have need o' much anyhow — 
just set 'round an' read an' sleep an' 
play cards with the others. 

I s'pose you know 'MeHa an' her ma 
have gone to the city to see 'bout gettin' 
her a good position on the stage? You 
'ain't ? Well, it's true, as I'm the one to 
tell it. 'Melia an' her ma are goin' to 
see all the theatrical managers till they 
find a nice gentlemanly one that suits 
'em, an' then take up with him. She says 
103 



Z\)c letcrnal ifemlnlne 

she couldn't do a thing if she went with 
one she didn't Hke an' he made her ner- 
vous. She's wrote down part o' "The 
Suicide's Dream," an' is goin' to recite it 
for 'em. She's 'bout made up her mind 
what kind of a part she's goin' to act — 
if she don't change her mind again. She 
ain't particklar what the words is, as 
long as she can wear a white swiss even- 
ing dress trimmed with ermine, an' tube- 
roses an' a di'mond crown in her hair, an' 
long black silk gloves, an' a pongee op'ry 
coat hangin' on her arm, an' carry a 
bokay o' autumn leaves an' everlastin' 
flowers. Won't she look elegunt? 

She thinks Maudie will like to do wait- 
in' in one o' them dressy rest 'rants where 
they cook cakes in the winder. She's 
goin' to make a writer out o' Claribel — 
it ain't so showy, but it's solid, an' they 
104 



^be jEternal feminine 

say it's awful payin' when you can beat 
ev'ry one else at it. She's goin' to have 
her write po'try an' advertisements an' 
plays for 'Melia to act in. 

Well, Hiram Peglow — I should think 
it was 'bout time — I thought you never 
was comin' back from dinner. You take 
the longest while over your victuals, an' 
here I'm near wore out trapsein' 'round 
here waitin' on ev'rybody, an' no one 
to help me, an' bein' pestered to death 
with bein' talked at, an' the more I do in 
this here store, the more I'm let do, an' — 
Landy Goshen ! here comes a whole troop 
o' them city boarders. Here, go dry out 
them sody- water glasses an' put a couple 
o' teaspoonfuls o' that lemon fiavorin' 
in the syrup bottle an' fill it up with water, 
an' there ain't no more strawberry till I 
can stew up some cranb'rries for colorin' I 
105 



e5* t^*" «5*' 

at tbe 1bair-bre90er'0 

^^^ <2^ 9^^ 



at tbe 1bair-&re69er'6 

(She enters, hurriedly, one of the small 
curtained compartments. She is breath- 
ing hard, and her countenance betrays 
her agitation.) 

;00D gracious! — I'm so out 
of breath, I was afraid I 
would be late for my ap- 
pointment. And you are 
the only one in this whole 
establishment who can marcel properly. 
And I do hope that uppish young person 
at the desk hears me, and takes it to 
herself, too! The last time I was here a 
109 




^be leternal feminine 

friend called me up on the 'phone, and 
she never let me know till it was too late 
to have tea, and so it was very important. 
She gave as an excuse that I was in the 
middle of a shampoo — and couldn't talk 
in the 'phone. It wouldn't have mat- 
tered at all — it doesn't run in — I've often 
done it before. I had intended to give 
her that back-comb you said had gone 
out of style, and that hurts my head so 
I can't wear it, anyway. I won't, now; 
I'll give it to my sister. I wanted to 
make her a little present; nothing that 
she would hesitate to accept. That's a 
good idea. 

Just pull the curtains a little closer — 
that woman in the next place is staring 
in at me. At least I can't see her, but I 
know she is — they all do. Wait a mo- 
ment — let me see who it is. 
no 



Xtbe leternal feminine 

Why, it's Minnie Rogers! How do 
you do? — you're the last person I ex- 
pected to see here. I never knew you, 
you had your hair done. . . . Oh, I didn't 
mean that— I meant it never looks — 
looks — as though it had been! ... No, no 
— I didn't mean that, either. What I 
was trying to say, is — ivas — it never looks 
as though it had been touched — artificial, 
you know. . . . Mine ? Why, my dear, it 
must be this strong light — you can't see 
anything clearly, it's so bright. I never, 
never put a thing on it. The last place 
I had it shampooed, the girl let some- 
thing fall in the water that made it look 
queer, but it wasn't anything — nothing 
that changed it at all. I was awfully 
angry about it at the time, but it's worn 
off since. 

Where do you think I just came from? 
Ill 



Zhc jeternal ifemlnlne 

. . . The lunatic asylum? Now, if I 
thought you really — Of course, I know 
you didn't. Still, it was a pretty good 
guess, even if you didn't mean it. The 
hospital. . . . No, no — there's nothing 
the matter with me. It's Carrie Douglas — 
she's been for five weeks without moving 
on her back! And all on account of 
charity! . . . Well, if you will just let me 
get in a word edgewise I'll tell you all 
about it. 

I had to walk through the most terrible 
streets, and those dirty little urchins 
made faces with their mouths at me! 
Excuse me from any more sick friends. 
Naturally I only went for a very good 
reason — I wanted to get her dressmaker's 
address — you know, she's never in wheth- 
er she's out or not. I knew I'd find her 
this way. I really don't Hke her at all. 

112 



^be leterual ffeminine 

She's the kind of a woman who never 
looks you straight in the eye unless your 
back is turned. And even then you 
can't be too sure. Not that I care at 
all. . . . You know, she just got crazy over 
charity. I never did believe in it my- 
self. She had a lot of time she didn't 
know what to do with — I mean, between 
luncheons and calls and things that really 
matter — so she thought she would take 
up charity to amuse herself with. And 
that's always the way I find it, too — just 
when you think you're going to have the 
most fun it never turns out right. . . . 

Where did I leave ofi? — Oh yes, — 
Well, the family she picked out to be 
charitable with weren't the right ones 
at all. They were so ungrateful and so 
dirty, and didn't thank her one bit, and 
there were so many sets of twins all about 
8 113 



Z\)c lEternal feminine 

the same age, she said, and they would 
put their sticky fingers right on her best 
clothes, and when she spoke about baths 
they insulted her horribly — I couldn't be- 
gin to repeat it ! And when she told them 
how uplifting it would be to have a few 
beautiful things about, if only a cluster 
of flowers in a graceful vase — it would 
have such an effect in molding the chil- 
dren's characters — why, they almost 
threw her down-stairs. In fact, that was 
the way she was hurt. Coming out of 
the hallway she caught her heel in the 
ruffle on her underskirt — her husband 
always fought against her high heels — 
and she fell. The doctor said if she had 
been a bit more fatally hurt she wouldn't 
have lived. Or something like that. 
She's through with charity forever! She 
said when they picked her up she was 
114 



Z\)c leternal feminine 

absolutely speechless with fright, and 
only had strength enough to whisper, 
' ' Take me home . ' ' People with accidents 
always say that, don't they? 

. . . Margaret? Oh yes, she's gone to 
Havana, I believe — I never can remem- 
ber whether it's an island or a State — 
an3^way, she's gone to one of them. She's 
gone for a rest. I saw Dick the other 
day, and he looks as though he was en- 
joying her rest more than she is! . . . Oh, 
I suppose so — men are all alike, only he's 
more so than most. Really, though, she 
has the strangest kind of insomnia — 
fevery time she falls asleep it wakes her 
up! She says it's very dangerous and 
perfectly new. Her doctor hasn't named 
it yet — she's the first one to have it. 
You know, she always would get ahead 
of any one else. Some people call her 
IIS 



^be leternal feminine 

clever, but I say it's just spite ! You see, 
my Katie is third cousin to her sister's 
cook, and they are very friendly, so there 
is really nothing that goes on in her 
house I don't know about, though, of 
course, I never encourage listening to 
servants' gossip. But, my dear, you may 
believe me or not, but some of the tales 
I've heard fairly made my blood stand 
on end ! 

Oh, my dear, another most awful piece 
of news I've just heard and was able to 
tell poor Carrie at the hospital — Mrs. 
Darrell's little boy was bitten by a dog, 
and they think he was mad. . . . No, I 
don't mean annoyed — the dog — hydro- 
phobia — . . . No, it hasn't taken yet, but 
think it may any moment. It will be so 
much harder on Ethel than an5^hing 
quiet — ^they say it's noisy — and she is so 
ii6 



II 



Zbc leternal ifemlnlne 

calm, and hates any kind of a disturb- 
ance. He's such a badly behaved child, 
too. Every time she tells him to ' ' don't, ' ' 
he goes right off and does it! . . . Yes, it's 
awfully sad. . . . Now, do go over and see 
poor Carrie, and try to cheer her up. I 
won't say she isn't trying her best to 
get well as fast as she can, but that 
young doctor I saw over there certainly 
is fascinating. I think I'll go over and 
see her again to-morrow. We ought to 
do all we can to make the time pass 
pleasantly for her. . . . All right. — Good- 
by. 

Didn't know I knew her? Yes, in- 
deed, we've been friends for years, though 
I'm not very fond of her. Oh no, I 
simply wouldn't — I wouldn't think of 
such — . . . It's not really a dye ? — But 
I don't see — . . . Tell me about it. . . . 
117 



Zhc leternal ifeminine 

Oh-h-h — simply restores it to its natural 
color ? But my hair is — was — dark brown. 
To make it red wouldn't restore it — that 
would be dy — . . . 0-h-h, you can restore 
it to any color you like. Oh, I see. Well, 
suppose I — I mean, I have a friend, her 
hair is dark brown, like my hair was — is 
— and she had it bleached, and now it's 
almost back to its first color. Let me 
think — yes, that was the first color. 
Well, suppose she wanted to have it — ■ 
er — restored red, would it hurt her hair 
any? . . . Make it grow all the better? 
Oh dear, I would like it ; but my husband 
— ^he's so suspicious. He can't help it — ■ 
it's his business — ^he's a lawyer. You 
couldn't fool him. 

I don't mean one of those terrible dis- 
honest lawyers. He doesn't do divorces 
or any kind of criminals like that — no 
ii8 



Z\)c leternal feminine 

kind of law that isn't nice. He promised 
me he wouldn't before we were married. 
Of course, he wouldn't even if he hadn't 
— hadn't promised, I mean. If he didn't 
think one of his patients — whatever you 
call them — was in the right he wouldn't 
think of taking the case. I suppose you 
must have heard of him — he has a big 
black and gold sign on Broadway. . . . 
Haven't you, really?" 

. . . No, I don't like the way you have 
done my hair at all — I knew the moment 
you started you were getting it all wrong, 
but I thought I wouldn't say anything 
till you had finished it. You'll have to 
take it all down and put it up again ! 



^^^ <^^ <^^ 

®n a ''Seeing Xon&on'' fiDotor 

^^f ^^^ t^*' 



®n a ''Seeing Xonbon'' flDotor 

{She climbs up nimbly, but her gigantic 
hat, outspreading and upshooting, meets 
with several mishaps before she finally 
wedges herself in one of the rear seats. 
She speaks to her left-hand neighbor.) 

[OULD you mind squeezing 

over a little nearer the 

edge? Thank you ever 

so much. — And if you'll 

squinch down a little way 

in your seat my hat brim will go right 

over the top of yours. — ^And then when 

you want to come up I will lean the other 

123 




^be jeternal feminine 

way — see? You'll find it much more 
comfortable, I think — mommer and I al- 
ways arrange this way when we go out 
in cabs together. . . . It's horrid sitting 
way here in the back, but I suppose 
those other hateful people arranged for 
their seats in advance. 

Goodness, the time it takes for this 
thing to get started! If this had been 
America we would have been half-way 
round and on our way back by this time ! 
Now, how in the world am I going to see 
anything over this enormous hat this 
woman has on in front? And the way 
her head sticks out, too. I am going to 
ask her to take it off. 

. . . She wouldn't — spiteful thing. Said 
she would take cold — she'd just gotten 
over one. 

Well, I guess mommer and I have got 
124 



^be jeternal ifeminine 

the system down to the Hmit about beat- 
ing the tip habit they have over here. 
In our hotel in Parus there was a whole 
lot of elevators, so we never went down 
in the same one twice running — we 
marked down on a card, a — b — and c — 
and then we would put a cross on the 
one we went in last. In that way I don't 
think they remembered us — much — so 
when we went away we didn't give any 
of them a thing. Then we managed 
splendidly about the waiters. We had 
tea and toast in our room in the morning, 
and when the waiter came with the tray 
I would tell him to put it on the floor 
outside, and then when we had finished 
I would slide it out again, so we really 
hardly ever saw any one. The service 
was awfully bad, though. It was all 
right at first, but after a few days we 
125 



Zhc lEternal 3feminine 

had to ring and ring and ring before any 
one would answer. It was awful. And 
the chambermaid was always waiting 
outside and saying something about the 
tray — pointing to it and talking so fast. 
She spoke such funny French, though, I 
never could understand her. 

. . . Oh-h — you're not American? 
Somehow I didn't think you looked quite 
natural — you know what I mean — not — 
not like us. . . . And you've never been 
in America! Well, if that isn't the fun- 
niest thing I ever heard of — never been 
in America! Well, I can't get over that 
— how strange you must feel! I should 
think America would be the first place 
any one would think of going to. Just 
imagine any one never having seen our 
Flatiron Building, and the subway, and 
the elevated road, and the Museum of 
126 



^be jeternal jfeminine 

Art and Natural History, and all those 
sort of — well, sort of "wonders." 

. . . Oh yes, I've been to the British 
Museum— I think I'm likely to remem- 
ber it — that beast of a cabby ran up the 
steps after us and made such a fuss we 
had to give him an extra sixpence — we 
called a policeman, but he said it was 
all right. I really think they stand in 
with the cabmen, for we had several ex- 
periences like that, and every time the 
policemen were against us . That wouldn ' t 
happen in New York, I'll tell you. . . . 
And one of the mummies there looked 
exactly like a man I met on the ship, 
and I nearly died laughing over it. I'm 
always seeing resemblances. 

What place did the man say this was ? 
. . . Oh, St. Paul's. We have a city in 
America by the same name — I wonder 
127 



tCbe leternal jfemtnine 

if the church is named after it ? . . . Well, 
perhaps — but really now, wouldn't it 
stand to reason that it's much more 
natural to name a church after a city 
than a city after a church? You can't 
deny that. ... Oh yes, I know, but really 
when things are so terribly old I find a 
few centuries more or less really doesn't 
matter at all — at least not to me. — Isn't 
it awfully dirty-looking! I expected it 
would look much bigger. I don't believe 
it's nearly so high as our new Singer 
Building, nor as big as our Cathedral 
we're building up. . . . Well, maybe, but 
how can you tell when our Cathedral isn't 
done yet? 

... I think it would improve it a lot 

if it had a gold top on it like Napoleon's 

Invalids in Parus. — You ought to see 

our stock -yards out in Chicago — from 

128 



Zhc leternal jTeminine 

pig to bacon in about three whisks of a 
lamb's tail! . . . No, I wouldn't go inside 
if you paid me. These churches are all 
alike — nothing but benches and windows 
and statuary, and people saying their 
prayers. I can't tell one from another. 
And they all smell stuffy and un aired. 
After you reminded me I remembered, 
though I could always tell this one, be- 
cause when I go to take the train for 
Aunt Adelaide's at Christmas I always 
take a Christopher Street car to the ferry. 
And the other name is about a bird. . . . 
Oh yes, that's it— I always can tell it 
when I hear it, but I do sometimes hesi- 
tate between Robin and Wren. 

Heavens, how slow we go ! — If this was 

New York we would be through this crowd 

in a jiffy. . . . Perhaps, but what would 

the hospitals do if there weren't accidents 

9 129 



Zl)c letcrnal ifemlnlne 

occasionally? And I know all about 
hospitals — I took up charity after our 
bridge club was over, and I used to read 
for them once a week. I got awfully 
tired of it though — particularly after a 
terribly good-looking doctor left. It was 
horribly depressing seeing all those sick 
people looking so forlorn and gloomy. 
And you would think they would be as 
happy and cheerful as possible when 
everything was done to help them. I 
made up my mind, though, that the more 
trouble you took for them, the less they 
appreciated it — so I gave it up. 

Goodness, I wish that man wouldn't 
shriek so loud through that megaphone 
— I can hardly hear myself talk. What 
time do the stores close here? I've got 
a lot of things to get before we go back. 
. . . What did he say that was ? Oh, the 
130 



C;be leternal ifeminine 

Law Courts. They don't look a bit in- 
teresting. I went to a murder trial in 
New York once — I didn't tell mommer 
about it, though. It was perfectly love- 
ly. He was so frightfully handsome, and 
used to get so pale and sit and sit and 
twist his hands. — And he had the most 
gorgeous eyes I ever saw. I don't believe 
he was guilty a bit, though they did con- 
vict him — such a shame. I sent him 
some flowers once, but he never answered 
them. 

Where's a good place to get cheap 
handkerchiefs to take back? That's the 
worst bother about coming over here — 
everybody expects you to bring them 
something. I hate to do it, but then 
when the rest of them come over they 
won't bring you anything if you don't 
do the same. So I have to. 
133^ 



Z\)c jeternal ifemlnine 

. . . Yes, I'm crazy to get back — I love 
the trip. ... Oh no, I wasn't thinking 
about the rest or air. No, indeed, I can 
get along all right without them. I had 
such a perfect time coming over. The 
first officer was simply dear to me — it 
was moonlight all the way — and we used 
to go way up toward the bow and look 
for phosphorous in the water. I never 
saw any. And then he used to lend me 
one of his coats with brass buttons on 
it when it was cold — perfectly fascinat- 
ing. When no one was around, of course. 
I'm crazy to go back on the same boat. 

. . . Oh, goodness, more churches — 
well, I don't care what they are, I abso- 
lutely can't stand the sight of another 
one — I've seen about a million over here, 
I think. It got so when we arrived in 
a town the first thing I would ask if 
132 



Zbc :eternal feminine 

there was a cathedral, and where it was, 
and then when it was pointed out I 
would walk the other way! 

. . . There's another post-card place. I 
suppose they won't stop a few moments 
while I jump off and get some? . . . No, 
I suppose they wouldn't. 

I got one of those lovely skin-tight 
Directoire dresses in Parus — I don't know 
what popper will say when he sees me 
in it. It's so slinky and lovely, and I've 
learned to walk just like a snake in it. 
I believe I could play any kind of a 
tragic part in that dress — Camille or 
Elsa or the Merry Widow or — anything — 
. . . Oh, this is Strand Street, is it ? — It 
can't touch Broadway. 

Well, I was just going to tell you — I 
thought of going on the stage. My mani- 
cure always said she was sure I would 
133 



Zhc jEternal feminine 

make a great actress. Of course, I 
wouldn't play funny parts or anything 
where I couldn't look nice or wear lovely 
clothes. Only where I could have long 
trains — yards and yards dragging on the 
ground, and be misunderstood. Don't 
you know — where the husband would 
think I was in love with the best friend, 
and would treat me horribly, and then 
in the last act it would all be explained 
and show I was a martyr and only doing 
it to help — don't you see? And then 
when he was dying I would pretend I 
didn't care, and then when he was almost 
at death's door I would send for a 
specialist to try and pull him through. 
But he wouldn't be able to — and I would 
wear pink and a diamond aigrette in 
my hair for that — and then I would 
forgive him while they played some- 
134 



^be Eternal feminine 

thing soft. I . can see it all just as 
plainly. 

I've thought sometimes I would write 
plays — I have so many ideas. But in 
America the best people wouldn't write 
or an3rthing like that. 

. . . This is Trafalgar Square? I do 
think it would look ever so much more 
home-like and attractive if they would 
have some trees and grass in it — all our 
parks are like that. . . . This is where the 
suffragettes make speeches to the unem- 
ployed, isn't it? . . . Yes, I know about 
Nelson, too, but wasn't there a lot of 
talk about him? You know, in my 
country people can't be heroes and things 
unless they are perfectly proper. 

. . . Yes, I know that's the National 
Gallery — I was in there one day when it 
was too wet to go shopping — I've made 
135 



Zbc leternal 3feminine 

it a sort of point to go to a picture-gallery 
over here when I can't go shopping — I 
mean when you really don't intend to 
buy, but just go to look. There was one 
picture there that was the most marvel- 
ous thing I ever saw — you wouldn't be- 
lieve me. A woman holding a cat — and 
do you know that cat was the absolute 
living image of one that lives next door 
to us in New York, and spits at my dog 
every time I take him out. I never 
saw such a likeness in my life. I won- 
dered if it was a portrait. . . . Why, of 
course, I did — every one. But w^hen 
you have seen as many pictures as I 
have you finally find out that there isn't 
so much difference in pictures after all — 
one gets to look just like another. 

. . . Have I been to Westminster Ab- 
bey? Well, I should think I had. I 
136 




ONE OF THE MUMMIES LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE A 
MAN I MET ON THE SHIP " 



Zl)c jeternal feminine 

did it in fifteen minutes the other day — 
that's a record, I guess. I found the 
cheapest little dressmaker in one of those 
funny little stores off from a big one, and 
I had just a quarter of an hour between 
fittings to devote to seeing something, and 
I went there. You see, popper made me 
promise, before I left home, I would see 
one sight every day. This trip is to 
finish me off. 

If you had seen the way I raced through 
that place — ^just the way I make a bee- 
line for a bargain counter in New York — 
but I saw everything. Of course I didn't 
read all those epitaphs on the graves and 
things, but I bought a guide-book com- 
ing out so popper won't know the differ- 
ence. Some of those old images were in 
awful bad shape, though. — Now with us 
every time a nose or a hand was off we 
137 



Zhc lEternal ifeminlne 

would put a new one on. I mean if we 
had it in America. I'm not crazy about 
old things, anyway — all musty and full 
of microbes. 

. . . Now, isn't that hateful? Here 
we've been poking along all the way, 
and now he rushed us right past that 
window with all those lovely things! 
Mommer is out prospecting for shirt- 
waists for me this afternoon while I'm 
"improving" — I just despise it. 

. . . Oh-h, did you see those lovely hats 
— I can't stand this any longer — I'm 
going to make him let me ofE — all this 
sight-seeing has given me a headache. 

Good-by — perhaps we'll meet again 
sometime. You must look me up if you 
ever come to America! 



1^^ <5^ t^*' 

Z^z Con0oler 

f^^ <^^ ^5^ 



^be Conaoler 

(She comes slowly up the garden -path, 
with drear and sodden aspect — her limp, 
dun-colored skirts cling closely to her 
heel and follow in the wake of each foot- 
step. Her hands are wound in a gray- 
ish-black, beaded, cloth cape, which is 
wrapped tightly about her. Her head is 
crowned with a rusty black bonnet of 
indefinite design, decorated with a weary 
and spiritless plume. Her mouth is 
downward bent in melancholy trend, 
hut in contrast with the rest of her 
general bearing, two sharp and ferrety 
little eyes are constantly on the alert. 
She carries a dingy, black leather bag.) 
141 




[ELL, Amelia, here I am! 
I wonder what a house 
of mourning would be in 
this here village without 
me! I've heard some re- 
mark they wouldn't know there was any 
mourning and unhappiness around un- 
less I was there to help them on with it. 
Well, we all have our mission in life if 
we only find it out before we are dead — 
and then I don't know as it's going to 
do no good to nobody. . . . What say ? I 
didn't catch it. I've been a little deef 
in one ear ever since I sat up with Jabez 
Rice's departed the other night — it was 
142 



Hbe jeternal feminine 

sort of cold all over — not a fire in the 
house. — ^And I've brought my bag in 
case you want me to stay all night — I 
can just as well as not — or if you don't, 
I can take home any little odds and ends 
and cold bits you haven't any use for. 

I felt I must run in and try to cheer 
you up a mite. Mary said you wasn't to 
be disturbed and wouldn't see any one, 
but I knew you'd be glad enough to see 
me, so I just pushed by her and didn't 
wait for an answer. 

. . . My, you do look bad. Of course, 
it's no more than to be expected with all 
that fune'ral to get through with — I 
thought you was going to break right 
down in the middle of it. Still, you do 
look a sight worse than I thought you 
would. It all goes to show what folks 
been sayin* about you ain*t so — that 
143 



Zbc Eternal feminine 

you didn't care at all and would be glad 
to be a widow. Some said the remains 
made such a happy-lookin' corpse was 
because he was glad to get away, too. 
There ain't any accountin' for the spite- 
ful things some folks' tongues will say. 
I never believed it an}^vay, myself. 
What's done's done, I say. Besides, I 
knew it was only the art of Mr. Skids 
made him look like that — he surely is an 
artist in the undertakin' line — this new 
idea of givin' them any expression you 
want is certainly wonderful, though some- 
times dangerous. There was Sarah Lock 
thought she'd like to have 'Manuel look 
pleased and cheerful, and when his 
mother saw him with that happy smile 
on him she said it must have been be- 
cause Sarah had been a poor wife to 
him, and he was tickled to get away — 
144 



Z\)c leternal ifeminlne 

and then she went right off and took 
Sarah out of her will — I just met the 
doctor as I was comin' along here, and 
he told me somethin' that ought to cheer 
you up a good deal. He said you 
oughtn't to worry no more, because it 
wasn't really nothing serious the de- 
parted died of. I thought it would be a 
relief to your mind. 

That crayon oil-paintin' is an awful 
good likeness of the deceased — and so 
life-like. Many's the time I've seen him 
standin' just like that outside the Eagle 
House Bar, with that undecided look — 
tryin' to make up his mind, I s'pose, 
whether he'd go back in or go home. — 
Yes, yes — many's the time I've watched 
him curious — he usually went back in. 
It must be a great comfort to you now. 
I think a black crape bow on the corner 
10 145 



Z\)c jetcrnal jfeminine 

would improve it. Mis' Squibbs done it 
for her first — or was it her second? — 
anyway it was one of the beginners. 
She's a wonder for new ideas. She had 
all her best white china tea-set painted 
with a broad black border of mourning. 
It didn't cost her a cent — her niece was 
up from the city, and she's just learned 
china-painting — in fact, she's full of it — 
I think that's what gives her those ter- 
rible heads. And it was all sort of 
crooked around the edges, but as Mis' 
Squibbs said — you mustn't look a gifted 
horse in the mouth. Her third doesn't 
seem to like it much, though, so now she's 
going to have it with a band of gilt on 
either side — that'll fix it all right and no 
one's feelin's hurt — either here or here- 
after. She's had a real bad cough lately, 
but I think she's better now — the doctor's 
146 



Zbe jeternal ffeminine 

given her some new kind of an invocation 
to rub on her chest. 

. . . What say? Don't care for the 
china notion ? Well, you might do some- 
thing of the kind if it wasn't no more than 
to touch up your iron dog on the lawn — 
if only the ears and tail. Every one 
would take it as a sort of tribute to the 
departed, and I think the neighbors would 
approve, too. I am the last person in 
the world ever to say anything unpleasant 
to no one — whether they should deserve 
it or not — I don't set myself up to judge 
nobody — neither human bein's or others 
— catch as catch can, is my motto. But 
I do know, and repeat it, you'll find plenty 
to contend with, with all the gossip been 
goin* on since you been shut up here. 
If you could only hear all the hateful 
things people are sayin* — I am glad you 
147 



Zhe jEternal feminine 

can't — I don't know how you'd stand it. 
Now, Mis' Mooney said you wouldn't 
hardly got back from the cemetery before 
you'd have that picture up garret and 
ready for your next — she said you hadn't 
any too much time to lose, neither. I'll 
be glad to tell her she was wrong. 

. . . You had a good big crowd, didn't 
you? 'Liza Betts said you had more 
flowers than any one thought you'd get. 
She's got her troubles, too — she thinks 
little Henny's comin' down with the 
measles — she doesn't know just what. — 
Anyway, it's one of those spotted, out- 
side diseases — just 's her sister-in-law's 
come to spend the winter — broke out in 
a rash all over — and she's never had her 
before, and she's very partickler about it. 
And 'Mandy hardly over the whooping- 
cough. There's a terrible lot of sickness 
148 



Z\)c leternal jfeminine 

around now. You ought to be awful 
careful — you're so run down. Mis' Allen 
she said the day of the fune'ral — w^ell, I 
won't tell you what she said — it might 
upset you — but if any one was to say to 
me I looked like I was near death's door, 
myself, it wouldn't scare me a mite. Still 
you ought to be careful. You remember 
John Hinton was hardly cold before 
Lucindy was took after him. And light- 
ning never strikes twice in the same 
place. You never know what 'the hand 
of Providence is going to do next. 

Dreadful bad weather, ain't it ? Seems 
like the sun wasn't never going to shine 
again — so gloomy. I got a kind of chill 
walkin' up here, not that I never care 
what happens to me when I feel I am 
doing my duty — no matter how hard 
it is. No, I would starve with my 
149 



^be leternal feminine 

mouth shut, sayin' nothin'. That's my 
way. 

. . . What say ? . . . Well, now you come 
to speak of it I wouldn't mind a cup o' 
tea — I hadn't thought of it before, 
though. I haven't had much app'tite for 
my vittles lately. . . . And if it ain't too 
much trouble a little cold meat and bread 
and butter and a bit of cake — I never 
take nothing substantial at this time of 
day. I came off in such a hurry I didn't 
have much lunch — not that I hardly 
ever take it. 

Is that your new bonnet and veil 
in that box? . . . You won't mind if I 
try it on? — That's handsome crape — 
how are you going to wear it ? I have a 
notion for having the crape down the 
back on week-days and over the face for 
Sundays — and other dressy occasions, of 
150 



^bc lEternal ifcminine 

course — I think it's more elegant that 
way. Mis' Mooney said she didn't think 
it was as heavy as Mis' Squibbs's for her 
first. How much did you pay for it? 
I won't repeat it — I never tell those 
things. . . . You did ? Mis' Squibbs paid 
four dollars and sixty-eight cents for 
hers — and her niece got it for her, too — 
down to the city. 

When do you think you'll be goin' into 
colors again. . . . What say? . . . Hadn't 
thought of it yet? Well, there's plenty 
of time, I suppose. Mehitable Grimes 
says she thought you would be beginning 
to take notice by the time the church 
sociables commenced — she's got the spite- 
fulest tongue. — There's been consider- 
able talk as to what you ought to do 
with the deceased's clothes. Some think 
as they ought to go to your brother, 
151 



ZTbe leternal ^feminine 

and there are others as think that long 
black coat should go, by rights, to 
Deacon Stodger. — You know they talk 
about sendin' him out to India as a 
missionary to the Chinese. But you 
needn't be afraid any one will gossip 
'bout you an' him. — He ain't the kind 
to take any other man's left-overs! I 
suppose you won't be keeping that green 
nuns' veiling with the red polka-dots on 
it now? I don't want to suggest noth- 
ing, but Mis' Adams' Eleanor Marie is 
keeping comp'ny with' that young city 
clerk up to Doolittle's Emporium, and 
I think — if you'll sell it cheap — I could 
get her to buy it — it would be just the 
thing for her to wear when he takes her 
out buggy-riding Sundays — trimmed with 
some fresh bows or a little passementerie 
across the front — she sits down so much 



^be leternal feminine 

there needn't be nothing on the back of 
the waist. 

. . . There, now, if you ain't cryin' 
again. What's the use of my tryin' to 
cheer you tip a bit if you're goin' on Hke 
this? , . . My sakes, it does take a terrible 
long time for that kettle to boil. I'll 
just step out to the kitchen myself and 
have a look. . . . No, don't you move, I'll 
go. 

. . . Well, I guess you'll be glad I went 
out there — such a mess as that kitchen 
is in — I couldn't stand it, but some don't 
seem to care what the hired girl does. 
. . . What say? . . . No, I suppose you 
haven't been seein' much to things lately 
— you'll be surprised when you do look 
'round. She seems to be dreadful waste- 
ful, too. I see there's a large piece of 
the fune'ral cake left in the back butt'ry. 



JCbe lEternal feminine 

If you don't care about it I just as soon 
take a piece home with me. . . . No, you 
needn't wrap it up now — I'm going to set 
awhile longer with you till I see you 
chirking up some. 

. . . Well, here's the tea at last — Mary 
doesn't seem to hurry none, does she ? 

. . . Miss Martin has such lovely tea — 
she keeps it in a jar back of the parlor 
sofa. She gave me some the other day — 
she doesn't give it to everybody — only 
those she specially cares for — Did you 
ever have any? . . . Oh, you didn't. It 
tastes entirely different from this. . . . 
Oh no, I didn't mean anything like that. 
This is very nice when you're cold, or 
in a hurry, or some one comes in. Miss 
Martin never can do enough for me when 
I go there — gets out her best china and 
makes me try all her new jellies. I've 
154 



Zbc jEternal feminine 

got my mission in life, I guess, and no 
one knows it better than me, if I do say 
it that shouldn't. 

. . Yes, I'll take another cup, please, 
with plenty of cream. . . . Oh, it isn't 
cream — it's milk after all, isn't it? All 
right — ^with plenty of milk, please. I 
get so used to cream at Miss Martin's — 
she says it's vulgar to have an3rthing 
else — she says nothing's too good for me. 
I always feel so comfortable when I'm 
there. . . . Yes, I'm going there again 
very soon. ... If you don't mind, I'd like 
Mary to make me another piece of toast 
— and I'll try a little of that raspberry 
jam I saw as I was comin' through the 
butt'ry. I'm not real hungry, but some- 
times I get kind of faint about this time 
of day. 

Dear, dear, I hate to hear you sigh like 
155 



Zl)C letcrnal ^feminine 

that. — And you look whiter than when I 
come in — that's just the way Lidy Cog- 
gins began before she went into a decHne 
— didn't think there was nothing the 
matter with her, and all the time the end 
had begun. 

Your geraniums don't look as though 
they were ever goin' to bloom again, do 
they? Some folks don't seem to be 
handy with flowers. When I was lookin' 
out of the kitchen window I noticed your 
garden ain't lookin' up to much neither. 
Everything sort of backward — I guess it 
ain't goin' to improve much, neither, if 
this weather keeps on like this — and I 
think it will. It always seems like 
that when the head of the fam'ly is 
taken away. When the hand of Prov- 
idence and desolation has set the seal 
of affliction on a sorrowing widow, 
156 



ITbe lEternal feminine 

why, there ain't no hope for nothin' 
left. 

There, if you ain't off again. — i\nd I 
thought I was doin' you good. That's 
the way with sorrow — you never know 
what it's goin' to do next. 

I suppose you'll be takin' up a good 
deal of church work now? The be- 
reaved generally does till they feel better. 
Of course you'll have to be careful or 
you'll be talked about a great deal — I 
mean even more than you are now — 
that young assistant bein' unmarried and 
all the unmarried women tryin' to catch 
him. A good many thinks he ought to 
show his respect to the cloth by takin' 
Jennie Driscoll — she's gettin' on now and 
bein' in such affliction with the poor 
health she always enjoys — she won't get 
another chance — it would be so proper 
157 



Ztbe jeternal 3feminlne 

and churchly all around, but he don't 
never seem to go there. He's awfully 
set in his ways for the instrument of a 
higher power. Mis' DriscoH's awful dis- 
couraged of ever workin' her off other- 
wise. You know her green silk dress 
she's been keeping for so many years 
hopin' to have it made up for Jennie's 
weddin' ? Well, she's got kind of dis- 
couraged of ever havin' a chance to wear 
it, so she had it made up for your fu- 
neral. What did you think of it ? 

. . . You didn't notice it? My, won't 
she be mad when I tell her. Well, per- 
haps you'll see it at the Piggots' — that 
is, if he goes off, too, this fall, as we all 
expect — Mis' Driscoll said she thought 
she would keep it for occasions like that, 
or weddin's — it will do for either. She's 
goin' to vary it by wearin' her mosaic 
158 



Z\)c jEternal ^feminine 

brooch and a bunch of artificial red roses 
for one, and just black silk gloves for the 
other. She's a perfect pattern in what's 
dressy to wear. 

I tell you what, don't any one get 
ahead of Mis' Piggot for forehandedness. 
Got her new winter cloak — black's your 
hat and trimmed with a double row of 
crape buttons. She's gettin' all her 
things dyed black, too. I saw them all 
hangin' on the line as I come along, and 
there sat Sam Piggot a-settin' in the 
kitchen window lookin' out at 'em just 
as mournful-like — seems though he under- 
stood what was expected of him. So, I 
guess you ain't a-goin' to be alone in 
your affliction if Mis' Piggot can help it. 
Seems though there is such a thing as 
bein' too sensible about some things. 

I think Mis' Riggs's goin' to have her 
159 



Zhc leternal feminine 

operation soon's she's got her house- 
cleanin' done. Somehow I don' think 
she's never goin' to get over it, though 
she seems very hopeful. I told her, any- 
way, she better prepare for the worst. 
Little Evelina's lookin' sort of meachin', 
too — she's never goin' to be a healthy girl, 
neither, I guess — always sort of ailin'. 
They're dreadful frightened about her, 
too, and have sent to the city for a special- 
ist. Such a foolish notion, for they say 
children's diseases are simple anyway, and 
I should think any kind of a doctor would 
do. Besides, she's very small and back- 
ward for her age. 

Well, well, this world is an awful vale 
of sorrow anyway — nothin' but gloom — 
and I'm trying the best I can to help 
things along. Some are resigned, but 
others ain't. I don't criticize no one, and 
i6o 



Zbc eternal feminine 

I ain't got nothin' against no one — I sup- 
pose we are all a-doin* the best we can 
according to our lights — but some might 
try a little harder — ^that's all. . . . Well, 
well, ... If you'll have Mary wrap up 
that cake for me and any little things 
you don't think you'll want I'll be goin' 
along — if you're sure you don't want me 
to stay all night ? . . . All right, but I can 
just as w^ell as not. I guess I'll drop in 
an' see how old Mr. Piggot is gettin' on — 
I think he needs cheerin' up, too. You 
send for me any time you get blue again. 
Good-by. 



il 



^^^ t^*' t^^ 

aimo6t a ^ragei)i? 

\A Study in Feminine Moods] 

^5^ t^^ 4^^ 



aimo0t a ^ragebi? 

(Scene. — A very small room overfull of 
very new - looking ornaments, lamps, 
clocks, paper-cutters; bonbon spoons in 
profusion together with very shiny silver, 
very heavy cut glass, etc., on each article 
of which is plainly writ, ''wedding 
present.'' It is the home of a very new 
bride. This last is attested by the young 
woman herself, who flutters about a tiny 
table set for two, changing the position 
of a fork or a spoon here and there, and, 
with head atilt, critically regards each 
move. She is very pretty, of the large-eyed, 
baby type. Finally, the arrangements to 
165 



^be leternal ]femlnlne 

her satisfaction, she withdraws a rose 
from the bowl adorning the center of the 
table, and approaching a mirror, fastens 
the flower in her hair.) 




'HAT an old married wo- 
^ man I'm getting to be! A 
W ^1 whole month to-day since I 
became Mrs. Edward Pren- 
dergast Frothingham ! And 
I've actually heard people say married 
life is dull — I haven't found it stupid a 
bit — and I'm sure, after four whole 
weeks of it (complacently) , I may be con- 
sidered a somewhat competent judge. 
And as for excitement, it certainly seems 
lively enough with two maids coming 
and two going every week — it seems as 
though we had four maids! 

. . . And we haven't had a single quar- 
rel — no, not one — oh, that is, well, of 
167 



ZTbe lEternal jfemlnine 

course, it was all Edward's fault! It 
was really too ridiculous of him to ob- 
ject to my putting powder on my nose. 
Why, I've done it for so long I positively 
believe I would take cold without it! 

Mrs. MacDowell says they always be- 
gin like that — make you stop doing all 
kinds of things you like and always have 
done. She says they do it to show you 
how important they are. But she says 
it's all a question of who puts his foot 
down first and keeps it there — and keeps 
it there the longest! And she must be 
right, for her husband is lovely to her — 
lets her go away whenever she wants 
to, and lets her stay as long — And he's 
always at her days at home — not like 
most men — and he never steps on your 
skirt or gets under your feet, and he 
never spills a drop of tea when he passes 
i68 



Zhc lEternal feminine 

you a cup. Oh, she must know — she 
says men are all right if they're trained 
properly from the beginning. — iVnd yet 
(with an air of indecision) , I don't know 
whether I like her — No (decidedly) , I 
don't — I hate her! I have a sort of idea 
— at least a feeling, she would like to flirt 
with Edward herself. Still — she does 
seem to be wise. 

(She seats herself in an incongruously 
large, stiff and slippery, stuffed and 
huttoned-in, leather chair. A nup- 
tial gift from Uncle Jo, who believes 
in ^^ giving something substantial 
you can't break.'' N.B. — Mrs. 
Frothingham had pleaded for a 
glass curio-cabinet.) 
Now, Mrs. MacDowell says every man 
likes you to have his evening clothes all 
ready and waiting for him when he comes 
169 



Z\)c Eternal feminine 

home at night. But she says you 
mustn't do it every night, because if you 
do he soon takes it as a matter of course 
— indeed, gets dreadfully disagreeable if 
you ever fail to see to it — whereas, if you 
only occasionally show him the attention, 
he takes it as a great favor, and thanks 
you for your thoughtfulness, and says, 
''what a comfort a wife is anyway!" — 
There might be something in that! . . . 
Oh, nonsense — that's all very well for 
people in general, but Edward and I 
don't have to go in for that sort of thing. 
What a good husband he is to me — four 
whole weeks! — Though Mrs. MacDowell 
says it sometimes takes a whole lifetime 
to discover if a man is going to make a 
good husband, and even then you can't 
always tell. What a horrid thing she is 
an3rway! 

170 



ICbe leternal feminine 

(Suddenly she sits bolt upright in 
quite a panic.) 
I hope I haven't forgotten anything 
about dinner to-night. Last night we 
didn't have a thing but cold bacon and 
eggs left over from breakfast. Of course 
it wasn't my fault — I had to spend so 
much time at the cooking-class learning 
how to make those lovely fancy puddings 
that ought to have stood up, but always 
went down, that I didn't have time to 
study housekeeping. 

{Again she hovers over the table, 
touching its dainty appointments 
with gesture almost caressing) 
Anyway, the table looks so pretty I'm 
sure Edward won't notice whether he has 
anything to eat or not. {Slowly, and 
with a look of rapture.) He is so different 
from any other man! 
171 



Zhc lEtcrnal feminine 

Edward and I have the sweetest idea. 
It seemed so long to wait, a whole year, 
before we could have an anniversary, 
that we have decided to have one every 
month — sort of monthliversaries. So on 
the 24th of each month we are to have 
our little celebration. To-night is the 
first. Mrs. MacDowell said we would get 
tired of it in no time — spiteful cat! 

Now I think Edward said, be sure to 
leave the claret in the bottle and put the 
champagne in the decanter — that's the 
way I have it, anyway. He'll be so 
pleased to see how well I'm learning to 
remember! I wonder what the girls at 
the convent would say if they heard I 
knew all about wine! 

Edward says I'm learning how to be 
thoroughly conventional. I have had 
lessons enough to find out what that 
172 



Z\)c Eternal Jfeminine 

means, anyway, and that is doing what 
you don't like, what you never intended 
to do, or never would think of doing, to 
suit the ideas and notions of other people 
you don't care twopence about! But 
Edward says we cannot disregard the 
laws of society in which we move. {The 
foregoing with great dignity.) It sounds 
terribly profound, but Edward is so 
clever he can make up the most wonder- 
ful speeches that I can't understand at 
all. How stupid I must be! 

Oh, I haven't looked at the newspaper 
to-day. I'll just have time to glance 
through before Edward comes. (With 
an air of martyrdom she clutches the paper, 
and commences her task.) Such a waste 
of time, but Edward likes me to be up 
on the important topics of the day — so 
let's see. Must look at who's dead first. 
173 



Z\)c jeternal ifeminlne 

{Peruses column disappointedly.) Not a 
soul I know — ^how disappointing. Now 
for Edward's important topics — Oh, 
fancy, blouses like that for six and six — 
Isn't that wonderful ! {She rustles rapid- 
ly through several pages and then pauses.) 

Aeroplanes — Bulgaria ~ Turkey — 
Austria — Parliament. {Rustles on with 
increased speed.) Suffragettes — unem- 
ployed — Now, I don't understand it — 
I'm sure I never have an idle moment 
the whole day long. There are always 
calls, and when they fail, concerts and 
the hair-dresser or the manicure or the 
dressmaker. And men can always go 
to clubs or something. . . . Bah, how tire- 
some ! — why will they fill the papers with 
such rubbish? — I don't believe any one 
reads it. 

"Matrimonial difficulties'* — this looks 
174 



Z\)c lEternal jfeminlne 

interesting — ''Threw a lighted lamp at 
his wife" — And probably broke it, too 
— how thoughtless some men are — 
''Wedded but a month"— j^st like Ed- 
ward and me — "Wife sues for a divorce" 
— oh, not a bit like me! — "Husband's 
attentions to wife's friend the cause." 
Now, how perfectly ridiculous. {She re- 
places the paper with a judicial and su- 
perior air.) Why, I'm just delighted to 
think that at last I've made Edward take 
a little interest in Alice Greatorex, the 
dearest friend I have in the world. 

She is such a dear, sweet girl I don't 
see how any man could fail to like her. 
But Edward says — {She hangs her head 
and simpers) Oh, well, Edward's a 
goose about me. Still, I made him 
promise he would call on her some after- 
noon on his way home. I know she feels 
175 



^be leternal feminine 

hurt to think he never goes there except 
with me. . . . Dear old fellow, how differ- 
ent he is from most men! (She smiles 
once more and pensively turns round and 
round a gold circlet on the third finger of 
her left hand.) But I think that just 
plain ordinary husbands should be trusted 
more than they are. How are they going 
to learn to keep out of mischief unless 
they first discover what it's all about? 
Though that Mrs. MacDowell says most 
women trust their husbands a great deal 
more than they deserve. What a horrid 
beast of a creature she is, anyway. 

The idea of imagining every time your 
husband looks at a pretty woman that 
he is in love with her! {This is accom- 
panied by a largely vague but charming 
sweep of the arm.) Why, I can't make 
Edward admit a woman is even good- 
176 



^be jeternal jfemlnine 

looking when I'm around. But Mrs. 
MacDowell says that no man — unless he 
is a fool — will admire another woman 
before his wife. Well, I suppose some 
women are just foolish enough to get 
fussed over a little thing like that. There, 
this very article is probably a good 
example of that very thing. — Wife takes 
it into her head husband is showing too 
much attention to her friend, and rushes 
off to the divorce court, without waiting, 
I'll warrant, even to get her hat on 
straight ! 

Now, how much wiser to sit down 
quietly — ^just as I would — think the mat- 
ter over coolly, then after dinner, when 
you both feel comfortable and happy, 
ask him very gently if he thinks perhaps 
he has been just a weeny, teeny bit over- 
zealous in trying to make himself agree- 
12 177 



^be leternal 3femlnlne 

able to your friend. Never for a moment 
raise your voice, or let him think for a 
single second you really attach the slight- 
est suspicion to him. Encourage him by 
your confidence in him. And then, of 
course, he will tell you all about it, and 
the whole thing is settled in no time, with- 
out a particle of ill-feeling on either side. 
(Leaning forward she rests her chin 
in her upturned palms, her elbows 
resting on her knees. The pose is 
peculiarly suited to her style.) 
Though even that isn't necessary. The 
true wife has only to say to herself, "I 
trust my husband!" And then nothing 
on earth can disturb her peace of mind! 
I'm so glad I was wise enough to learn 
all those things before I was married, 
for it may prevent my having many 
heartaches. — Though Mrs. Mac Do well 
178 



Zhc leternal jfeminlne 

says all your fine theories and reasonings 
go for nothing when something really 
serious happens. I am beginning to 
think that woman is a perfect fiend and 
mischief-maker ! 

Why, if any one were to come to me 
with a story about my Edward, and 
place even the most convincing proofs 
of his wrong-doing before me, it would 
weigh as nothing against my supreme 
faith and belief in him! 

Why — why — if my Edward were not 
to come back to me for a whole year, it 
would not shake my trust in him, and I 
would welcome him back with open arms, 
and not even ask where he'd been ! 

(Quite overcome with the vastness of 
her feeling, she rises to soar to 
further heights, when she encounters 
a maid who enters at that moment.) 
179 



^be jeternal femtnlne 

Well, Wood ? ... No, Mr. Frothingham 
is not home yet. . . . Late ? Did you say 
late? . . . Fifteen minutes late? Why, 
you must be mistaken — Mr. Frothing- 
ham is never late for dinner. . . . You are 
sure you are not wrong ? . . . No, certainly 
not — don't serve dinner until I ring. 

{For an instant she remains rigid, 
then, her eyes widening with terror, 
she commences to pace the room.) 

Fifteen minutes late! Fifteen minutes 
late! What does it mean ? Where is he ? 
What is he doing ? I cannot understand 
it — ^he has never been late before, and 
to-night of all nights — our first month- 
liversary! Let me think — let me think! 
{Presses her hands wildly to her head.) 
This is too horrible. . . . It's some terrible 
accident! {She pauses, her face growing 
very white.) He is going to be brought 
1 80 



Z\)c leternal ifeminine 

home to me blood-stained and mangled — 
before my very eyes — right here on this 
carpet ! And only this morning I warned 
him to be careful of those awful motor- 
' buses. ... I suppose it will be in all the 
papers — and half of my trousseau not 
yet touched — and now all black— and 
it's not at all becoming. Oh dear, oh 
dear, I'll lose ni}^ mind! (She falls into 
a chair, quite unable to stand) 

Of course business would not detain 
him at this hour, either. . . . What can it 
be — what can it be? {Inadvertently her 
hand brushes the discarded newspaper be- 
side her J and she recoils as though stung) 
No, no, no! It couldn't be that — this 
poor woman had a bad husband — and 
she was jealous — I*m not. I don't even 
know how it feels. . . . And one can't be 
jealous without having some one to be 
i8i 



Zhc jeternal jfeminine 

jealous of. (A curious gleam narrows 
her eyes, until, through scarcely parted lids, 
two very black pupils glitter.) I — I — 
wonder who I can think of ? . . . Now% I 
must be calm, perfectly calm and col- 
lected. Who can it be? Of course, it's 
just as this poor woman discovered (tap- 
ping newspaper) — another woman in the 
case! Mrs. MacDowell said — Oh, what a 
clever woman she is! If I only had her 
here now to advise me — she would be 
able to tell me where he is, and what he 
is doing, and what I ought to do! Oh, 
my poor brain — my poor brain. 

(She continues to walk agitatedly 

about.) 

Now, who can it be ? Mrs. MacDowell 

said it was always your best friend who 

betrayed you, but I can't — Wait a 

minute — Ah, I see it all now — Ifs 

182 



Zhc leternal 3feminlne 

Alice Greatorex — my dearest friend in all 
the world! . . . But she needn't think she 
deceived me — I saw through her all the 
time — she's thin enough to be trans- 
parent, goodness knows — and Edward 
never liked thin women before! 

I knew she would turn on me some 
day — I expected it before this. . , . That's 
why she didn't marry Dick Halliday — 
though I always knew he preferred me, 
and only made up to her because I 
snubbed him. She — she waited till I 
married so she — she could steal my hus- 
band. {She sobs violently.) 

Oh yes, I understand it all now — and — 
and Edward only married me so he — ^he 
— oh dear, what a muddle it all is! — But 
it's perfectly clear to me! 

{Thoroughly fired by righteous in- 
dignation, she draws herself to her 
183 



Z\)c leternal ifeminlne 

full keighty while her eyes blaze with 
rage. She still sobs intermittently .) 

Still, they need not have flaunted their 
perfidy in my very face in this outrageous 
manner. Oh, what shall I do — what 
shall I do ? . . . I'll — I'll leave this house 
— I'll go this moment — where 's my hat ? 
{With grim determination, that sits strangely 
on her childish face, she snatches up a be- 
feathered hat that lies on the table, and 
stabs viciously at it with the pins.) I'll 
take pattern after this poor woman and 
get a divorce! {Puts hat on all awry.) 

Oh, the monster — I wouldn't forgive 
him — I wouldn't forgive him if he stood 
up on his bended knees this moment and 
begged for pardon all wrapped in gore! 
No, I would say . . . What's that strange 
noise — it can't be — what is it? {Slowly 
she withdraws the pins from her hat, and 
184 



Zl)c Eternal ifemlnine 

hurls it across the room, her face one vivid 
streak of ecstasy.) It sounds like Ed- 
ward's latch-key — Yes, it is the front 
door. . . . And that's Edward's footsteps! 
. . . Oh, Edward, what gorgeous roses! 
... For our first monthliversary ? ... Oh, 
3^ou darling! 



f^*' ^^ v^ 

^be Ma? of tbc Morib 

t^*' €5^ tP^ 



ZDc Ma? of tbe MorlD 

(Her Story) 

H, Ethel dear, you darling 
— how perfectly heavenly 
to find you at home this 
lovely afternoon. I hadn't 
an idea I would see you 
when I made up my mind to come — I 
was sure every one would be out, and 
then I could get all my calls off my mind 
without a bit of trouble. . . . Now 
Ethel, that is utterly unworthy of you — 
you know I didn't mean that — you were 
the one person I was hoping to find. 
189 




Z\)c lEternal jfeminlne 

Besides, I have heaps and heaps to talk 
to you about. . . . Oh, you silly, there's 
nothing in it at all — there's nothing be- 
tween Irving Browne and me. I don't 
say there might not be if he had his way 
— I know every one seems to think he 
is in love with you. I wouldn't go so 
far as to say that myself, for I must 
admit that I do think — in fact, I'm sure 
— he is just a bit — a teeny bit — taken 
with me. Still, that's another story, and 
if I don't get on with what I came to talk 
about it will never be told. . . . 

My dear, isn't that a new ring you 
have on? — And on your engagem.ent 
finger, too . . . Oh, it isn't an engage- 
ment ring ? Well, dear, I hardly thought 
it was because — Oh, well, you know I 
thought you were — well, too sensible to 
go in for that sort of thing. Now I come 
190 



Zhc jEternal feminine 

to think of it, I met Irving Browne the 
other day in Bond Street. He stopped 
me and made me look in at a jeweler's 
at a ring that looked ever so much like 
the one you have on — asked me if I was 
going to have an engagement ring if that 
was the sort of one I would pick out for 
myself. Did you ever hear of anything 
so pointed? I knew in a moment if I 
gave him the slightest encouragement he 
would have proposed to me right there, 
in the middle of Bond Street — and the 
'buses going by, too. But I didn't. I 
really wouldn't have told you this if that 
ring on your finger hadn't made me 
think of it. . . . Oh, your aunt gave it to 
you? 

Well, my dear, I want to tell you all 
about Mrs. Grant's week-end party and 
about Douglas Sloane. Talk about being 
191 



tibe jeternal ifemlnine 

persecuted with attentions — it was simply 
too awful ; don't know what will happen 
to the poor boy if I throw him over en- 
tirely. I never have seen such a case 
of absolute slavish devotion — actually 
followed me about like a little dog. I 
didn't mind, though, for I could see poor 
Flora Grant was wild with rage about the 
way he hung about me. How she has 
gone off this last year, hasn't she ? And 
the way she chases after poor Major Rod- 
ney is too absurd. 

Well, there was Douglas — I will tell 
you later how I came to call him by his 
first name — waiting at the station for 
me with the pony-cart. Of course, I saw 
he had arranged it so he could have a 
little tete-k-tete before I met the others. 
When we drove up to the house there 
was the whole gang out on the lawn 
192 



^be ]£ternal 3feminine 

having tea. Flora Grant pretended to 
be so pleased to see me, but I could see 
she did not like the idea of Douglas 
about bringing me himself in the pony- 
cart. Douglas at once flew over to her 
to try and placate her, I suppose, but 
presently came back to me with a face 
about a yard long. It was so ridiculous, 
as though he could not leave me for a 
moment to speak to another woman — 
and the hostess at that — ^without going 
into a spasm! 

He wouldn't cheer up a bit until I had 
let him have three cups of tea and endless 
cakes. When the dressing - gong rang 
Flora called him over, and I heard her 
say something about ' ' dinner " — I couldn't 
catch what it was. Mounty Roe had 
stopped to speak to me, and though I 
am pretty good at listening to another 

13 193 



ZTbe lEternal ^feminine 

conversation while some one is talking 
to me, this time I couldn't catch a thing 
but that one word, "dinner." When 
we started for the house I wish you could 
have seen Douglas's face then — a yard 
and a half long this time — fancy just 
because he was going to be away from 
me one little hour. I managed to whis- 
per to him it wouldn't be for long, and 
he mumbled something about he hoped 
it wouldn't. I couldn't help but be 
sorry for him. 

I wore my green spangled frock with 
a red rose — I knew Douglas liked green. 
They were all waiting when I came down, 
and I wish you could have seen Douglas's 
expression when he saw me! The others 
were all paired off already, and poor 
Douglas lounging in a comer waiting for 
me. 

194 



^be Eternal feminine 

At dinner I had, of course, him on one 
side and Harold Wood on the other. I 
thought I would upset Douglas a bit, so 
I started right in — with the hors d'oeuvres 
— to flirt desperately with Harold. It 
was too funny. Douglas immediately 
turned to Edith Scott — ^horrid little cat 
— ^who w^as on the other side of him, and 
began the most animated talking you 
could imagine — laughing the whole time 
just to show me he didn't care what I 
did. Of course, this set me off worse 
than ever, and such howling around our 
end of the table you never heard. When 
I was in the middle of the soup, though, 
my conscience hurt me a bit, so I turned 
to him and said he might talk to me a 
little if he wanted to. I wish you could 
have seen his face again — black as a 
thunder - cloud. You can always tell 
195 



Z\)c lEternal ^feminine 

when a man is getting really desperately 
in love with you by the nasty way he 
begins to treat you. When we were well 
into the salad I dropped him again and 
turned to Harold. 

After dinner Flora — such a tactless 
hostess, isn't she? Seems to delight in 
making every one as thoroughly uncom- 
fortable as she can— invites you there 
just to see how disagreeable she can fix 
things. Well, she insisted on having me 
sing. It was awfully pretty, really— we 
pulled the piano close up to the long 
open windows, and the moon streamed 
in — then some one turned off all the 
lights. Every one began to drop away, 
one by one — out to the terrace in twos 
and threes — but Flora and Douglas 
stopped way off in a shadowy corner. 
I could feel, though, how moved he was, 
196 



Zhc jEternal ifeminine 

and he started to go, too, but Flora 
whispered to him, and he came slowly 
back, and then she w^ent out, and we were 
alone. Pretty soon I stopped playing 
and ran my hands over the keys, and 
Douglas came up to me looking so un- 
happy. Well, I don't know what it was 
— the moonlight I suppose — ^he was lean- 
ing over the top of the piano looking at 
me, and I half sort of leaned toward him — 
quite accidentally, you know — and then 
I don't know, he sort of edged toward 
me or I toward him, and then I stood 
up or he leaned over, I forget which, and 
then, somehow, I found my hand in his — 
he didn't dare to squeeze it hard — he is 
one of those men you have to encourage 
a little — and then — well, in some way 
he managed to kiss me. 

Of course, I tried my best to stop him 
197 



Zhc jeternal feminine 

— I wouldn't have had it happen for the 
world — you know I don't believe in that 
sort of thing — a girl can't be too particular 
— and I knew mamma would be awfully 
cross about it — I mean if I told her. I 
never have told her anything like that — 
I mean if it had ever happened before 
I wouldn't — you understand. But, any- 
way, there you are. So, of course, after 
that I called him Douglas. I could see 
how pleased he was about it, for he fairly 
turned pale at breakfast next morning, 
when I said it for the first time, at the 
table. 

Flora was green with rage, and nearly 
choked in her coffee-cup. I forgot to 
say I saw her in the doorway the night 
before when Douglas ki-kissed me. I 
thought it was just as well to have a 
witness, don't you know, in that kind 
198 



tibe lEternal feminine 

of thing, so I didn't draw Douglas's 
attention to it. 

I suppose I am sort of engaged to him 
now — I can't say I am fearfully keen 
about him, but then every one says he 
has plenty of money, so, perhaps, that 
would help on a loveless marriage any- 
way. It's too bad, though, for the love 
to be all on his side, poor boy — I'm sorry 
for him. 

... Oh no, I haven't seen him since 
then. . . . No, nor heard from him after 
we came back to town. I really suppose 
the poor chap is too timid — you haven't 
any idea how bashful he really is — but 
that was only two weeks ago. I suppose 
he is afraid I will throw him over — poor 
boy, I must write him again and ask him 
to tea. . . . Ye-es, yes, I did write him 
once, I think, but he hasn't replied — 
199 



Z\)c lEternal ]feminine 

probably didn't get the note — the post 
is so uncertain nowadays. Of course, 
you know, nothing is really settled about 
it, so you won't say a word, will you? 
... I knew you wouldn't, dear. Well, I 
must be off — good-by, you darling. 



{His Story) 

Well, Irving Browne, by all that's 
holy — Come in, old man; haven't seen 
you in a month of Sundays. Take off 
your coat — hang it anywhere — on the 
floor if you like. Draw up by the fire — 
rotten day, isn't it ? . . . Oh, well, perhaps 
it isn't — Got the hump the worst way 
ever since I came back from Flora Grant's 
week-end party. Topping little widow 
that. Plenty of ginger, too, but the best 
sort in the world — hasn't got her mind 
200 



Z\)c jEternal feminine 

on the L. S.D. all the time — she's the 
kind would stick to a fellow if he hadn't 
a bob to bless himself with. — Have a 
peg ? I'll join you^been joining myself 
all afternoon — shove the soda over, will 
you — you're nearest. Have a cigarette? 
— You'll find the box on that table. 
Don't mind, I suppose, if I put a pipe 
on? . . . Good boy! 

Well, let me tell you. Flora Grant has 
about the wisest head on her pretty 
shoulders^ spoiled my week-end, though 
— I've been w^eek-ending there rather fre- 
quently of late. Said I was altogether 
too attentive to her openly, and every one 
was gossiping about it — of course, I sup- 
pose any one, unless they were blind and 
deaf, couldn't fail to see I'm clean gone 
on the little widow. Said she had a neat 
scheme to shut up all the cats with. 

201 



Zhc fiternal ifeminlne 

Announced, first thing I got down there, 
the only thing to stop their talking about 
us was for me to be openly attentive to 
some one else, so she had invited Hilda 
Rathbone for my express delectation. 
If there is one girl on earth I simply can't 
stand it's Hilda Rathbone — little devil, I 
believe she knew it. So she invited a 
crowd last week-end to witness the row, 
and so spread the news broadcast about 
my infatuation for the Rathbone. 

Started me off first thing to meet her 
alone in a pony -cart at the station — I 
kicked at that, but it was no use — her 
ladyship was adamant, and I had to go. 
When we came trundling along in that 
ridiculous pony-cart there was the whole 
crowd out on the front lawn having tea. 
Always before we have had tea com- 
fortably down at the tennis-courts, but 
202 



i 



^be jEternal feminine 

trust Flora to arrange matters — every 
mother's son and daughter hned up to 
gape at our triumphal entry. I was hot 
imder the collar, I can tell you, and as 
soon as I had landed the fair Hilda with 
a cup of tea, rushed over to Flora and 
begged her to let me have a turn around 
the garden to cheer me up and steady 
my nerves. She wouldn't — sent me 
straight back to the slaughter, and it 
was only after I had nearly drowned 
myself with tea and consumed a dozen 
or so cakes that I felt sufficiently strong 
to go on with the game. 

Thought, of course, as I had behaved 
so well about the afternoon. Flora would 
reward me by letting me take her in to 
dinner. Not a bit of it — called me over 
to her just as the dressing-gong sounded 
and said I had to take Hilda in to dinner, 
203 



the J6ternal ifemintne 

as I was most likely to lose my head then, 
and be conspicuously attentive, and every 
one there to see it. Had to walk up to 
the house with Hilda, just about as 
miserable a man as you could see. Must 
have shown my feelings pretty plain, for 
Hilda whispered something or other about 
it not being for long — don't know what 
she meant — but I was in such a funk 
that I just blurted out I hoped it wouldn't 
be! 

The stupid little minx kept every one 
waiting before she came down — wanted 
to make a show of herself walking in — 
and would you believe it — a girl with 
that complexion — tricked herself out in 
some sort of hideous green-spangled affair 
that made her look like a boa-constrictor 
— and then she topped off this horror 
with a red rose. When I looked up and 
204 



^be jeternal jfeminine 

saw this ghastly combination come sail- 
ing into the drawing-room I came within 
one of chucking up the whole job then 
and there, but I got such a warning frown 
from Flora — bless her dear little heart ! — 
why, I braced up to take my medicine 
again. As good luck would have it, 
though I had to take Hilda in to dinner, 
she had Harold Wood on the other side, 
and he is always a pal in distress, and 
when I tipped him the wink he began to 
make up to her furiously. Just as I was 
getting along rippingly with Edie Scott 
— nice little girl, that — I've always had 
a soft spot in my heart for her — of course 
I had also to keep a weather-eye out that 
the widow didn't observe all this — I 
knew she couldn't see me squeezing Edie's 
hand under the taWe. — As I say, just 
as I was enjoying myself Hilda turns 
205 



Zhc jEternal feminine 

around and puts an end to everything — 
my spirits went to zero again. Never 
has any one had such a depressing 
effect on me — always makes me think 
of suicide and sudden death. I struggled 
through dinner somehow, comforting my- 
self with the thought that at least I could 
arrange a tete-a-tete with Flora out in 
the moonlight, later — there is a most en- 
trancing little summer-house down by 
the river, quite shut off from anywhere. 
But she insisted — out of sheer vicious- 
ness, I'm sure — insisted on getting my 
torturer to sing. I had a brilliant idea, 
and had the piano pushed as near the 
open window as it would go, to let as 
much of the sound as possible go out- 
side, and then turned the lights off so her 
contortions couldn't be seen. Ever see 
Hilda going through the singing act? 
206 



ZCbe leternal feminine 

No ? You've got a treat in store for you. 
Of course, under cover of the darkness, 
every one began to slip away — they 
wouldn't have dared to with the lights 
on — and finally the little widow and my- 
self were the only ones left. I suggested 
to her that we might run away to the 
summer-house for a few moments, but 
she said no, I must stay, and then off 
she went. 

There was nothing else to do — I 
couldn't go on sitting way off in a corner 
like a spanked kid — when, too, you know 
a girl is clean off her head about you — 
you've got to show a little spirit — so over 
I went to the piano and leaned on it, 
looking as much like a love-sick calf as 
I knew how. Her unattractions didn't 
stand out so plainl}^ in the moonlight, 
and if ever I saw a come-and-kiss-me 
207 



^be leternal jfcminine 

look on any girl's face, she had it — ab- 
solutely begging for it. I shut my eyes 
and made a swoop, and she rose right to 
the bait — fairly threw herself at me. 
Just then I thought I heard a swish of 
skirts, and sure enotigh, there in the door- 
way I made out the widow with some 
one — I couldn't tell who it was — then 
there was a smothered giggle and she 
was gone. Rotten luck, I call it. I tried 
to get a word with her later in the billiard- 
room, but she wouldn't have it — gave 
me the chuck at once, and I haven't been 
able to fix it up since. All the rest of the 
time she pretended to be terribly taken 
with that old mummy Rodney — but I 
could tell she was doing it just to get me 
wild. And she did, all right. Suppose 
she will come around after her wrath 
cools off. Shouldn't care to lose track of 
208 



^be leternal 3feminlne 

her entirely. . . . The Colonel left her 
pretty comfortably fixed, I believe — 
Nice little place she's got down there on 
the river, and a bully good house in town 
— ^her family has money, too. 

If you'll believe it — serves me jolly well 
right, too — next morning at breakfast 
Hilda began to call me ' ' Douglas." 'Pon 
my word, old chap, I know I went livid. 
And, of course, her ladyship began to 
smile behind her cup, and I got wilder 
than ever. Can't help, though, feeling 
rather sorry for the little Rathbone, for 
.there is no use mincing matters between 
pals, the girl is desperately in love with 
me — not conceit, you know, but I can 
always see through a mill-stone if there's 
a hole in it. They say she'll come into 
money when her uncle dies. 

Hadn't been back in town an hour 
14 209 



^be eternal ffeminlne 

before she rushed a note up by messenger, 
and she's been bombarding me ever 
since — about two a day — been going on 
for a couple of weeks — don't know what 
to do about it. Clean off her head about 
me — she comes into money, though. — Oh 
yes, I told you about it. — I say, old chap, 
do you mind if I ask you to clear out? 
I've got to dress and meet Edie Scott for 
tea at five — you don't mind, do you ? . . . 
I thought you would understand it. Con- 
grats again on your engagement to Ethel 
— she's a little brick. Good-by, old chap 
— have another peg on your way out. 
See you soon — call me up at the office. 

{The Hostess's Story) 

Why, Ethel dear, who would ever have 
expected to meet you here at this hour 
of the afternoon ! Have you had tea ? — 

210 



Zbc Eternal feminine 

it's awftilly late, I know, but I haven't 
had a bit of lunch. . . . Oh, you haven't ? 
Good — let's go somewhere. My dear, 
I'm just in town for the day. I haven't 
a rag to my back — one does get so dowdy 
stopping so much in the country. I've 
ordered a ton of things. That's a nice 
frock you have — who made it? . . . Oh, 
really — m'm'm — Would you trust her 
with any really good material? I'm 
awfully particular. Let's go in here. 
Of course — always my luck — not a table 
to be had — Oh, wait, there's one. 
Whew! I'm tired. Had a crowd last 
week-end — I'm a wreck — I'll tell you all 
about it as soon as I've had a cup of tea. 
Thank goodness! here it is — you pour — 
I haven't the energy of a mouse. I wish 
you and Irving would come down one 
time, but I suppose you won't — newly 

211 



^be lEternal jfeminine 

engaged couples would rather stay in 
town even when it's deserted and take 
'bus rides on Sunday, and hold each 
other's hands. . . . Well, if not quite that, 
something like it. . . . No, dear, no cream 
and sugar for me — it's fattening, so I've 
sworn off — -wish I could get a brandy and 
soda instead. . . . No, dear, I know — you 
can't here. No, no bread and butter 
either — starch is fattening, too — ^just a 
dry biscuit. 

I'll hurry over my tale of woe about 
last week-end, because I want to talk 
clothes with you if I have time before I 
rush for my train. Of course, you know 
I have had an understanding with the 
Major for some time — What ? Oh yes, 
dear, of course — I admit I have been 
flirting rather desperately with Douglas 
Sloane — not that I care a rap about him, 

212 



ZCbe leternal feminine 

but he's presentable, and I hear he has 
a tidy bit tucked away somewhere — not 
that any one would know about it, for 
he is the stingiest man to take you out — 
when he does it. It always puts the ser- 
vants in bad temper whenever they 
know he is coming down, he tips so badly. 
Anyw^ay, the Major was getting a bit 
restive with my having Douglas so much 
at the house, so I thought something had 
better be done to put him off the scent. 
So I invited the least attractive girl I 
knew — I certainly wasn't going to throw 
Douglas at a good-looking girl, even if I 
was through with him — and that, of 
course, was Hilda Rathbone. — My dear, 
I was going to ask you, but then I remem- 
bered you w^ere just getting engaged. 
. . . Oh, Ethel, how hateful of you to take 
it like that — I didn't mean that at all. 
213 



Z\)c jeternal ifcmlnlne 

Well, you know Hilda, how susceptible 
she is, let a man look at her twice and 
she is ready to fall on his neck — I don't 
like her at all, so I wrote her and said 
my party would be a flat failure if I could 
not count on her to come and stay the 
week-end — clever me. So I made Douglas 
think I was getting very much upset over 
some imaginary gossip I had heard re- 
garding his attentions to me, and the only 
way to stop all this talk was to have him 
openly devoted to some one else — you 
see, I didn't want him to know about 
my engagement to the Major, either — 
for you know it really isn't settled — and 
won't be until I am perfectly sure about 
the money. You know, dear girl, I am 
the least mercenary woman in the world, 
but one can't live on love alone nowa- 
days, and though I am the plain, old- 
214 



Zl)c leternal feminine 

fashioned kind, and don't go in for all 
this heartless intriguing — still, of course, 
I have to be a bit practical. 

So I explained it all to Douglas, and 
made him promise to devote himself en- 
tirely to her the whole time he was down 
there — for my sake, of course. It all 
worked like a charm. I pointed out to 
the Major on all occasions how devoted 
Douglas was in his attentions to Hilda, 
and that it ought to prove conclusively 
that he most unjustly suspected me 
when he thought I was flirting with 
Douglas. And Douglas really was get- 
ting on my nerves. To cut it short, my 
dear, Hilda and Douglas fell madly in 
love with each other, for I caught them 
in the drawing-room rapturously kissing 
each other in the dark. I made the 
Major look, too, and, of course, that 
215 



Z\)c jeternal feminine 

settled the matter with him entirely. 
Poor Douglas is such a stupid, too, I 
think they will make an excellent match. 
Oh, my dear, look at the time — I'll have 
to run for my train after all. I am so 
glad to have had this little chat with you 
— most people are so designing, and al- 
ways with their minds on the main 
chance — I can't get along with them. 
Give my love to that dear boy, Irving — 
I think you are a very lucky girl — your 
ring is a beauty. You must come and 
visit us after the Major and I are mar- 
ried — providing, of course, I find his 
finances are all right. Would you mind, 
dear, paying the tea check? — I haven't 
any change, and I must rush or I'll lose 
my train — You don't mind, do you ? . . . 
I thought you wouldn't. Good-by, dear. 
Don't forget to remember me to Irving. 



t^*' ^^^ f^^ 

^^^ •^^ <^^ 



I 



4 



Z\)c Xonbon Cbar-Xab? 

(She is dressed in rusty black that has seen 
the sun and rain of countless seasons. 
Her skirt, frayed at the bottom, trails in 
the back, but is quite five inches off the 
ground in front, and displays large, 
shapeless boots, down-trodden at the heel, 
and from which many buttons are miss- 
ing. She wears a scanty black cape, em- 
broidered in beads, the pattern long since 
obliterated, and trimmed with a rag of 
lace. She is crowned with a dingy, dun- 
colored bonnet of archaic design, and at 
one side droops a disreputable feather, 
that long ago has resigned all ambition 
219 



Zbc £ternal jfemintne 

to curl; the whole is tied beneath the 
chin with limp, black ribbon. She car- 
ries in her hand an unimportant-look- 
ing string bag, in which reposes an 
apron, tightly rolled. On her departure 
at night this bag or carry-all has swollen 
to alarming proportions and is full of 
irregular -shaped packages wrapped in 
newspaper. Immediately following her 
exit many sundries of the larder, in the 
shape of a cold joint, parts of pies, and 
other edibles, are discovered to have 
vanished, and the coal seems to melt into 
thin air at her approach. These matters 
are looked upon as her ''perks'^ {per- 
quisites), and comment or protest would 
be considered in execrable taste, besides 
availing nothing. Her garrulity is al- 
ways of a lugubrious trend.) 




lOOD MORNIN', m'm — 
'ow are you feelin' this 
mornin'? . . . Well? You 
don't look it, m'm. Just 
as w'ite as yer piller, m'm 
— more fit for a box than anythin' else. 
Got any pain anyw'ere ? . . . No ? Some- 
times it's worse that way. Well, per- 
haps you will bime-by. We don't any 
of us know when we're goin' to get took. 
You just remind me of a lady I used to 
work for, m'm. I come in early one 
mornin', an' I see 'er lyin' there in the 
bed, m'm — ^just like you, m'm — an' I 
asks 'er 'ow she feels, an' she says, ''very 
well," just like you, m'm — an' I 'adn't been 

221 



Z\)c jEternal feminine 

there one hour — beHeve me, or beHeve 
me not, m'm — w'en she was took sort o' 
faint, m'm, right 'ere, m'm — an' 'er 
wearin' the loveHest dress, m'm, all em- 
broidered down the front with bunches 
o' gr'ipes — an' they 'as 'er off to the 
'orspittal and cut to bits, before you could 
count Jack Robinson. An' she never 
come out, neither, leastways, not warm. 
An' she was such a lovely lady, too, 
m'm, an' that fond o' me — you never 
heard the like. She used to say to me, 
m'm, "Skiffles," she says, "Skiffles, it 
does me as much good as a tonic to see 
you comin' in so bright an' cheerful of a 
mornin', an' you ain't outside the door 
at night but wot I feel 'appier." An' 'er 
'usban', m'm, 'e was such a gentleman, 
too — nothin' stuck up or proud about 
'im, m'm. W'y, 'e was jUvSt as common — 

222 



Zbc leternal ifeminine 

just as common as you an' me, m'm. 'E 
used to take a drop too much once in a 
w'ile, but don't we all know 'ow that is 
at times, m'm, w'en we're feelin' a bit 
down-'earted? An' nobody the worse 
for it, neither. 

Well, one mornin', m'm, I was a-comin' 
along early — I was cleanin' a lady — an' 
she was a lady, too — lookin' -glasses in 
every room in the 'ouse, m'm, an' visitors 
to tea every afternoon, m'm, an' 'ats an' 
dresses an' boots, m'm, till you couldn't 
take a long breath, m'm, an' no lookin' 
in the corners for dirt, m'm, an' no 'untin' 
on the tops o' things for dust as you 
couldn't reach comfortable-like without 
the steps, and no eyein' you suspicious, 
neither, w'en you're takin' 'ome a few 
odds and ends out o' the dust - bin as 
wouldn't do nobody no good no'ow. 
223 



Zhc lEternal jfeminlne 

Well, as I was sayin', m'm, I was 
a-comin' along early, an' as I passes the 
'ouse, there stands Mr. Foot — that was 
'is name, m'm — leastways, 'e was stand- 
in' the best 'e could, m'm, 'im bein' wot 
you might call just a bit, well, that way, 
m'm — There 'e was, sort o' limp, m'm, 
leanin' against the area railin' with his 
umberella caught between the rails wot 
'e couldn't get out. You see, m'm, it was 
like this as it turns out to be: 'E 
'adn't been 'ome all night, m'm, an' 
Mrs. Foot — that was 'er name, m'm — 
'ad been sittin' up all night, watchin' for 
'im at the dinin'-room winder, an' w'en 
'e comes along an' sees 'er sittin' there, 
through the area railin' s, 'e gets the idea 
'e's at the Zoo, lookin' at the animals 
between the bars, an' 'e pokes 'is um- 
berella in playful at 'er. But that was 
224 



^be leternal feminine 

all afore she died, m'm. But 'e was a 
puflBck gentleman, 'e was — As soon as 
'e sees me, m'm, 'e straightens up, an' 
takes 'is 'at off to me — an' 'im only able 
to Stan' on one leg — lifts it right off 'is 
'ead, m'm, just as though 'e was me equal. 
Oh, 'e was a gentleman, 'e was — But 
'e 'ad a 'orrible 'ead after it. . . . An, 
wasn't 'e the 'appy gentleman w'en I'd 
see 'im of a Sunday afternoon, a-walkin' 
out with 'is two daughters, the two Miss 
Feet. 

Now my 'usban' — you ain't never met 
my 'usban', m'm, 'ave you? I mean not 
social-like — only w'en 'e come after my 
money the other night. Now 'e could 'a' 
been a gentleman, or a preacher, m'm, if 
'e'd 'ad 'alf a chance. You don't know 
wot 'e 'as in 'is brain, m'm — no more do 
I, no more does nobody else, m'm. But 
15 225 



Zhc Eternal ffeminlne 

'e sits an' thinks an' thinks, m'm, an' 'e 
says some day 'e is goin' to do somethin' as 
will astonish everybody. 'E's a wonder- 
ful man, is Mr. Skiffles, m'm, an' yet 'e 
ain't very strong, m'm — sort o' delicate- 
like, m'm, an' then again, 'e ain't just wot 
you would call indelicate, neither, m'm. 
'E eats well, an' 'e sleeps well, but 'e ain't 
able to get up early in the mornin', m'm, 
an' w'en there's anythin' partikler 'eavy 
to be done about the 'ouse, m'm, 'e feels 
more like layin' down than nothin' else. 
But 'e's a good 'usban', m'm, brings 'is 
wages 'ome every Sat'day night, just as 
reg'lar — never a penny stopped out — 
that was, m'm, w'en 'e was workin', w'en 
we was first married, m'm, ten year ago. 
. . . 'E 'ain't felt up to much since then. 
But then, m'm, I 'card say bad 'ealth is 
very refined, m'm, an' then there ain't 
226 



Zhc leternal feminine 

no 'casion for 'im to work 'imself to 
death with me always some thin' to do. 
An' I tell you wot 'e thinks o' me, m'm. 
— Every mornin' w'en I takes 'im up 'is 
early cup o' tea, m'm, wot do you think 
'e never forgets to say, m'm? 'E says, 
"Mrs. Skiffles," 'e says, "Mrs. Skiffles" 
— 'e always says Mrs. Skiffles, just as 
though we weren't married at all — you 
know, m'm, 'e always seems more like 
a friend than a 'usban' — "Mrs. Skiffles," 
'e says, "it's just like a bit o' sunshine 
comin' in at that door w'en I sees you 
there, all out o' breath, with my cup o' 
tea." An' w'en I'm cleanin' 'is boots, 
m'm, 'e never forgets to say to me, ' ' Mrs. 
Skiffles," 'e says, "as I see you standin' 
there, cleanin' my dirty boots, I think 
you got the prettiest little w'ite 'ands 
I ever see on any woman. " W'y, m'm, I 
227 



Zbc leternal 3fcminine 

wouldn't miss cleanin' them boots and 
*earm' them words for nothin' on earth. 
An' then w'en I've tidied myself a 
bit, I carries 'im up 'is breakfast — 'e likes 
'is breakfast an' 'is pipe an' noospaper 
afore 'e gets up, these cold, dark mornin's 
— 'e likes 'is comfort, does Mr. Skiffles, 
an' w'y shouldn't 'e 'ave it? 'E 'as all 
the instincks of a gentleman, 'as Mr. 
Skiffles, as any one can see. An' w'en 
I sees 'im all fixed comfortable-like, in 
front o' a nice bit o' fire, afore I goes out 
to my work, wot do you think 'e says 
then? "Mrs. Skiffles," 'e says, "I'll be 
sittin' 'ere all day long in front o' this 
fire, thinkin' about you an' watchin' that 
door to see your pretty face comin' in 
there at night." That don't sound like 
an 'usban', m'm, does it? Not a com- 
plaint out o' 'im, m'm. An' like as not 
228 



4 



Z\)c leternal jfeminine 

'e reminds me not to forget 'is 'alf o' 
pint as I comes by the pub at night. 
There ain't many Hke 'im. 

I ain't never a-goin' to work for Mrs. 
*Odgkins no more, m'm — She ain't 
no lady, she ain't, an' she don't know one 
w'en she sees it, neither. An' she's just 
got one o' them new wavy transfigura- 
tions for 'er back 'air, too. Not but wot 
she didn't need it, m'm — all the 'air she's 
got she 'angs on a 'ook at night, m'm. 
Well, I was up there washin' and scourin' 
'er last week, m'm, an' was a-sittin' down 
for a moment a-restin' myself afore I be- 
gins, w'en in comes Mrs. 'Odgkins to me, 
an' she says, ''Skiffles," she says, ''Skif- 
fles, I don't believe you done down them 
back kitchen stairs last time you was 
'ere." Well, m'm, believe me, or believe 
me not, 'er comin' in like that give me 
229 



Z\)c jEternal ifeminlne 

such a turn, an' I told 'er that I never 
'ad 'ad no one never speak to me nothin' 
like that afore, an' I 'ad done them stairs 
down last time I was there, an' if she 
wanted me to I would take my solemn 
word I 'ad. An' if I 'adn't, I was just 
a-goin' to do them that very minute she 
come in at the door. An' that same 
afternoon, m'm, she come into the 
kitchen w'ile I was a-havin' my tea — 
no lady would do that, m'm — an' I 'adn't 
no more than raised the saucer to my 
lips, m'm, afore she says to me, very 
'aughty-like, "Skiffles," she says, "Skif- 
fles, did you see a 'alf a crown lyin' on the 
drorin'-room table ? — It was there w'en you 
came this mornin', an' now it has went.'* 
Well, m'm, I near drops dead with 
shock, but I gets up an' I draws myself 
to my full 'ight — ^just like I 'ears about in 
230 



ZTbe lEternal feminine 

that lovely book Mr. Skiffles is readin* 
now, The Washes of Remorse — 'e's quite 
a scholard, is Mr. Skiffles — 'e often reads 
to me, m'm, after I come 'ome at night 
tired out, an' I'm scrubbin' the kitchen 
floor — an' as I gets to me feet accident- 
like, steps on a bit o' coal as was lyin' 
under the kitchen table with my bonnet 
and shawl. I twists my ankle, but I 
says nothink about it — I draws myself 
up an' says, "Please, m'm, an' thank 
you, m'm, an' beggin' your pardon, m'm 
(I knows my manners, an' I never for- 
gets 'em, no matter 'ow I'm insulted, 
m'm), "I may or I may not 'ave seen 
the paltry 'alf a crown you mention, I 
don't know, as all the ladies I works for 
never leaves nothink around no smaller 
than gold soveringks!" 

You see it was like this, m'm — Wen 
231 



^be lEternal jfeminlne 

I was dustin' the drorin*-room table I 
sees wot looks to me like a 'alf a crown. 
I picks it up and bites it — ^to see as it*s 
all right — then I dusts it careful and puts 
it back with the other furniture. Then 
I opens the winder an' I walks out. You 
see, wot I think 'appened, m'm, was this. 
Most likely the draught blows the 'alf a 
crown out o' the winder — 'ow do I know ? 
— and just at that minute, m'm, I sees 
a little nipper pick up somethin' from 
under the winder — or near it — an' makes 
off as fast with it as 'is dear little legs 
would take 'im, so I says to myself at 
the time, ''Look at the dear little feller, 
most likely 'e's runnin' off with some- 
body's 'alf a crown 'e's picked up, bless 
'is little 'eart, an' good luck to 'im." — 
An' they never found 'ide nor 'air of it, 
neither, m'm. 

232 



TCbe jEternal feminine 

Believe me, or believe me not, m'm, 
sometimes my brain is near wore to 
death with all my troubles ! Well, never 
mind, as they say, ''At the Day of Judg- 
ment every 'erring must 'ang by its 
own tail." But wot's goin' to 'appen to 
Mrs. Brown, I don't know, m'm. In 
fact, m'm, I don't know wot's comin' 
over all the wimmen nowadays — they 
don't know their place no more, nor 
wot's owin' to their 'usban's. I don't 
think I've never told you nothing about 
Mrs. Brown, m'm, she wot lives on top 
o' us — she'll lose 'im first thing she 
knows, an' she won't get another, m'm, 
not with that face, m'm. She treats 'im 
terrible, m'm — more like a dog than 
anythin' else. Mr. Brown's all right, 'e 
is — got a smile an' a 'earty word for 
every one, 'e 'as. You see, 'e comes 
233 



Zbc leternal Jfeminine 

from the North, m'm, an' is a snow- 
shoveler by trade, m'm — it ain't 'is 
fault, is it, that we 'ain't 'ad no snow to 
speak of in London for the past three 
years ? 'Ow can 'e 'elp it ? 'E ain't one 
o' those willings-to-work but won't work. 
Well, the other night I comes in from 
my work, an' there sits Mr. Brown the 
other side o' the fire with Mr. Skiffles, as 
comfortable as you please, sharin' Mr. 
Skiffles' pint o' bitter. Pretty soon Mrs. 
Brown comes in from 'er work, an' not 
findin' Mr. Brown up-stairs, down she 
comes, an' w'en she finds 'im she's in a 
towerin' rage. 'Ow does she expect any 
man's goin' to stand sitting in a cold 
room all day without a bit o' fire an' 
not even a drop in the 'ouse to warm 'im 
with, neither? Well, w'en she finds 'im 
there, 'appy an' comfortable-like, she 
234 



Zhc jeternal 3feminine 

near goes crazy — such langwidge, m'm — 
she calls 'im ever3rthing she could lay 
'er 'and to. You see, she 'ad got 'im a 
little job o' emptyin' dust-bins without 
askin' 'im if 'e felt like it, an' w'en she 
told 'im about, 'e said 'e couldn't go 
because 'e 'ad promised to march with 
the Unemployed — but that made no dif- 
ference with 'er. Some wimmen 'ain't got 
no feelin's. 

I near forgot to tell you my sister-in- 
law's buried 'er mother at last, m'm. 
They give 'er a proper send off, they did, 
m'm — an' she made a lovely corpse — 
black 'orses an' carriages, m'm — with 
them long bushy tails — 'angin' down be- 
'ind. An' she looked sight more like 
'erself than w'en she was alive, m'm. 
The corpse's other daughter took on ter- 
rible, she did, m'm. We 'ad a lovely 
23s 



Zhc leternal feminine 

time, m'm — Mr. Skiffles 'e was feelin' 
stronger that day, so 'e come, too. ... I 
tried to comfort 'er, m'm, by tellin' 'er 
not to mind — we 'ad all to go soon, but 
Lord love you, m'm, it didn't do no good, 
like water off a duck's back — in one ear 
an' out the other. 

Mrs. Kelly's 'avin' 'er troubles, too, 
m'm, she is. . . . You don't know Mrs. 
Kelly, m'm? She's a widow, she is, 
leastways, she's got a 'usban' but always 
wears weeds, because you see as 'ow she's 
able to do more for 'er customers in 'er 
profeshun — she gets sympathy-like. . . . 
Oh, she's wot you call a "pawner," m'm 
— one o' them there women who pawns 
the 'usban 's clothes on a Monday an' 
takes 'em out on a Sat'day night. She 
gets a penny a bundle for takin' 'em an' 
a penny for bringin' 'em back. Well, as 
236 



^be eternal feminine 

I stopped into the pub the other night 
to take 'ome Mr. Skiffles' 'alf an' 'alf , there 
sits Mrs. Kelly in the private bar lookin' 
very sad. I says to 'er, "Good evenin', 
Mrs. Kelly, an' 'opin' you're all right." 
An' she says, "The same to you, Mrs. 
Skiffles, an' many of 'em." Then she 
asks me wot I'll be 'avin' — she knows 
'er manners, too, does Mrs. Kelly — an' I 
says, "The same as you," an' she replies 
very polite, "So be it." Myself, I loathe 
the stuff : I only takes it med' cine-like, 
for my spasms — it gives me the shudders, 
m'm, w'en I tastes it. 

Well, these are Mrs. Kelly's own words, 
m'm. Says she, "Mrs. Skiffles, you know 
as 'ow, come winter, come summer, come 
spring, come autumn, I goes my rounds 
on a Monday momin' an' collects all the 
bundles, an' there ain't nobody can come, 
237 



Z\)c leternal jfemtnine 

'igh nor low, an' say I don't do all fair an' 
square by my customers, an' now Mrs. 
Muggs comes along an' in some under- 
'anded way finds out my regulars an' 
offers to do the 'ole job for three 'a' pence 
instead o' my tuppence, cuttin' the very 
ground from under my nose." Ain't it 
terrible, m'm, after she's been an' built up 
a good business? That's the way with 
this hfe, m'm — ^just when your cup is full 
to the bursting point, you find it has a 
silver lining. 

... Me apron dirty, m'm? No, m'm, 
that ain't dirt. Sometimes after I've 
done down the stairs or swept up the 
'earth, I wipes my 'ands on my apron — 
But dirt, m'm? No, m'm, beggin' your 
pardon an' thankin' you. 

. . . That's the third time you've 
coughed, m'm, since I come in. I don't 
238 



Z\)c leternal feminine 

like the color you got now, neither — It's 
more like wot you call a 'ectic flush than 
anythin' 'uman. . . . Got any pain in 
your chest ? . . . No ? It comes that way 
sometimes, m'm, an' you don't know 
nothink at all about it. My sister, m'm, 
w'en 'er young man was runnin' after 
'er, she was on the road with gallopin' 
consumption, an' we never knew it — an' 
'im a 'orse trainer, too, m'm. It begun 
just like tjiat, m'm, with a cough we took 
no notice of — started in 'er bronical 
tubes, m'm, and afore we knowed nothink 
she ups and dies, m'm, an' . . . 

. . . Wot, m'm ? . . . Your tea, m'm ? Well, 
I thought I 'card you say somethin' like 
that a w'ile ago w'en I was gassin' on. 
It won't take but a moment, m'm, an' 
I'll tell you all about 'er fune'ral w'en I 
come back. 

THE END 



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